


Songs to Listen to When the World is Ending

by Mr_Customs_Man



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Asexual Ford Pines, Asexuality, Attica Prison Riot, Child Abuse, Civil Rights Movement, Domestic Violence, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Generational Trauma, Homelessness, Multi, Period Typical Bigotry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Slice of Life, Slurs, Song fic, Teen Pregnancy, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 43,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25781137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Customs_Man/pseuds/Mr_Customs_Man
Summary: This is the story of the Pines family, from 1953 to 2012. A cold, implacable father. A pathological liar for a mother. A younger brother shouldered with the weight of his family's hopes and dreams. Two twin boys, growing further and further apart but unable to break free of each other's orbit.
Relationships: Carla McCorkle/Stan Pines, Ford Pines/Original Female Character(s), Stan Pines/Original Female Character(s), Stan Pines/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 22





	1. Rags to Riches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Rags to Riches" by Tony Bennett (1953)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y22tIJ6toPY)

_I know I’d go from rags to riches  
If you would only say you care  
And though my pocket maybe empty  
I'll be a millionaire _

Fil stepped off the bus and looked out at the line of red-bricked storefronts that stretched across Main Street. Home sweet home. 

What a dump. 

Peterson hadn’t changed much. It was just older, dirtier. Dandelions broke free from between the cracks in the pavement. Fil walked around them. They were the only pretty thing left in this town. 

The pawn shop was just how he left it, except for the American flag. That was new. It was probably Pop’s idea. How else would the neighbors know what good martyrs the Pines were? 

There was a ‘closed’ sign hanging in the front window. Fil walked past it to the side door that led to the upstairs apartment. The staircase was narrow and dark, groaning with every strained step. A lesser man might have hesitated. Might have slowed his ascent, maybe even stop, take a breath, breathe a sigh, wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. 

Fil was not a lesser man. 

He stepped lightly, rapped his fingers against the door and announced, “Ma, it’s me,” before opening the door. The first face he saw wasn’t his mother’s, but his brother’s. Sherman flashed him that cocky half-smile in black-and-white from the mantel, his uniform cap cocked slightly at an angle. The large, gilt-frame that once held Great-Aunt Rokhel’s wedding portrait now enclosed Sherman’s face. And the candles. Can’t forget the candles. No shrine is complete without candles. 

The whole thing looked ridiculous. Sherman would be laughing his ass off right now if he could see it. 

Fil’s mother came in, her hands compulsively wiping at her apron. “Filbrick!” She smiled, though her eyes were bloodshot and a little wet. “You’re home!” 

Fil held out his arms and let her come to him, enfolding her in a hug for a brief second before stepping back. “The bus just got in. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’ll take care of the arrangements. Did Pop ever discuss it with you? Anything special he wanted for the funeral? What kind of tombstone he wanted?” 

Mrs. Pines shook her head. “How long will you be staying?” She asked. 

“A month, maybe two. Long enough to make sure you’re settled and taken care of.” 

Then he’ll be back in New York and out of this dump, his hands washed clean of all this. He had plans. Big plans. None of which involved Peterson, New Jersey. 

_My clothes may still be torn and tattered  
But in my heart I'd be a king  
Your love is all that ever mattered  
It's everything, so open your arms _

For the first time since arriving in Peterson, Fil felt a wave of nostalgia as he entered Joe’s Diner. He saw Caroline Bresci sitting in a corner, cigarette in one hand. She had gotten fat. Old Joe stood at the counter, talking to Mrs. Lewis, his third grade teacher. The only thing new in the place was the jukebox blaring out Tony Bennett and the girl sitting in the front booth. 

She was maybe 10 years younger than Fil, eighteen or nineteen perhaps, with thick black hair and long legs. She wasn’t prettiest girl in the diner, not by a long shot. But Fil noticed her because she _wanted_ to be noticed, desperately. The women around her were wearing knock-off discount dresses and hand-sewn blouses. They sat like women, ate like women, talked like women. This girl was half-tilted in her seat, leaning slightly to one side to show off her figure, carefully packaged in a black turtleneck and plaid pedal pushers. There was a book in her hand – something about astrology – but she kept forgetting to flip the pages, her eyes constantly snaking up to watch the people walking past her window. 

She was an easy mark. Here was a girl who wanted to be swept off her feet – probably by some Beatnik with a bad haircut – and she wanted to look picture perfect when it happened. 

“Filbrick Pines! What a surprise!” Mrs. Lewis said. “I was so sorry to hear about your father.” 

“Thank you, it’s good to see you again, but if you’ll excuse me.” Fil wasn’t going to let an opportunity slip through his fingers. 

He approached the girl. “Astrology, huh?” He asked, bracing his hip against the table. “Can you read fortunes too?” 

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Maybe.” She smiled, cradling her chin on her hand. “Are you looking for a tall, dark stranger to come walking into your life?” 

Her name was Caryn. 

They went to the drive-thru. Caryn was mad about Vincent Price and the cinema was showing _House of Wax_. It was all so high school. Dinner, movie, parking. Kind of cute, really. “It _is_ Cathy!” The lead actress cried as she stepped away in horror from the wax figure of her friend. “It’s Cathy’s body under the wax! I knew it! I knew it all the time!” 

Caryn had him pinned to the front seat, her skirt rucked up around her waist, panties lost somewhere down on the floorboard. They missed the ending. 

_And you’ll open the door  
To every treasure that I am hoping for  
Hold me and kiss me and  
Tell me you're mine ever more_

Fil didn’t think about his father. He barely noticed the weight of the coffin against his shoulder, his mother’s cries. He was thinking about home, about New York, about a job some of his old Army buddies had lined up, about Caryn and whether he should change out of this penguin suit before going over to her place and fucking her. 

He helped his cousins lower the old man into the plot, right next to where Sherman was buried. 

“What are you going to do with the shop?” His cousin George asked as they walked back to the car. 

“Sell it.” 

“What about your Ma? Are you taking her with you when you go back to New York?” 

“‘Course not.” 

“Sweet Moses, you can’t sell your mother’s home out from under her! Where’s she going to go?” 

“Don't be ridiculous. I don’t mean to have her living on the streets. Aunt Sarah said she’d take her in.” 

Ten feet ahead of him, past the line of black-clad bodies, Fil could see his mother holding onto Aunt Sarah, her shoulders shaking from the force of her sobs. 

“It’s not Aunt Sarah’s responsibility to take care of your mother,” George scolded. “It’s yours.” 

Fil brushed him off. “Look, when I make it big, I’ll let Ma come and stay with me. Hell, I’ll _buy_ her a whole damn house.” 

Everyone else went to Aunt Sarah's for food. They were always eating. Fil didn't go. He went to Caryn’s. He kept the suit on. Caryn laughed when she saw him in it. “Geez, who died?” 

“My father.” Fil loosened the tie, pulling it up and over his head and letting it hang on Caryn’s bedside lamp. 

Caryn choked. “Oh, _shit_ ,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“What’s there to talk about?” He felt a bubble of annoyance rise, mostly because Caryn had stopped midway through unbuttoning her shirt to stare at him slack-jawed. 

“Uh, _plenty_! Fuck, this was your father--” 

“Look,” Fil snapped. “We didn’t exactly have a good father-son relationship. He had Sherman for that. So, I would rather we just skip the talking and go straight to fucking, if you don’t mind.” 

But Caryn was already buttoning her shirt back up. “No, Fil, you just came here from a _funeral_.” 

“I thought you liked that spooky stuff.” 

“Don’t be an ass.” 

Fil grabbed his tie and yanked it back over his head. “Fine. Have it your way.” 

Caryn leapt up from the bed and followed him down the stairs. “You’ll call me, right? Fil? Right, Fil?” 

Fil yanked open the door, to the surprise of Mr. and Mrs. Romanoff. They were standing on the front porch, shopping bags in one hand and the house key still poised to unlock the door. Fil nodded at them with a smile, tipping his hat to Mrs. Romanoff before placing it on his head. He walked away, leaving Caryn behind to deal with her parents on her own. 

_Must I forever be a beggar_  
_Whose golden dreams would not come true_  
_Or will I go from rags to riches_  
_My fate is up to you_

Fil finished packing up the dishes and scrawled SALE across the top of the box. The apartment had been emptied of almost everything. There were still a few odds and ends that needed taking care of. His mother was sitting on a footstool, slowly picking over a box of keepsakes. She called it “helping.” Fil called it a waste of his time. 

“Oh, Fil,” she called out as she pulled a lace cap out of a box. It had long grown yellow with age. “This was part of my old uniform, when I worked as a maid for the Petersons. They had a big house up on the hill, before it burned down. This was, oh, well, this would have been right after the war. The first war, I mean. I was a parlour maid, _not_ a chamber maid. I got to dust the library.” 

Fil dropped an armful of unopened spices into a trashcan. “That’s nothing to sound so proud about, Ma.” 

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Pines asked. “I earned twelve dollars every month! Your Aunt Sarah got to go all the way to eighth grade because of that money!” 

The telephone rang. Fil thanked God for the distraction. Anything to spare him from having to listen to Ma’s old stories. He picked up the receiver. “Pines residence.” 

“Fil? It’s Caryn.” 

“One moment—GET OFF THE PARTY LINE, MRS. KRANTZ, I CAN HEAR YOU BREATHING.” Fil waited for the telltale click of Mrs. Krantz from the apartment next door before continuing. “What do you want, Caryn?” Sweet Moses, he hoped she wasn’t getting _clingy_. 

“Fil... I’m... Well, I’m late.” 

“Late for what?” Fil demanded, fleeing back into the kitchen with the telephone to avoid listening to his mother, “Oh, is that _Caryn_? The girl you’ve been seeing? Is she Menakhem Romanoff’s daughter?” 

“Late for my period, you idiot!” 

A cold flush crawled over Fil. He could feel beads of sweat gathering along his brow. “Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I know a doctor in New York, if you’re looking for one.” 

“I don’t want a doctor, Fil.” 

The walls were closer than they were a minute ago. The kitchen was _tiny_. How had they managed to cram four people in here all those years? When Fil made it big, he’d get one of those large, modern kitchens with a separate dining room and a washing machine. Not a hand-turn, but a proper washing machine from Sears. “How do I know it’s mine?” 

“You fucking asshole, you _know_ it’s yours.” 

Shit, shit, shit. A washing machine. There was no way he could fit a washing machine in this kitchen. Maybe it could still work. He could use the money he got from selling the business as a down payment on a place in Flatbush. It’d be cheap, but at least it would still be in New York. Caryn would love New York. He could still make it big. He had his old Army buddies. They’d help him out. He wasn’t staying in this dump. 

“Fil? Are you listening? Are you there? I need to know what you’re gonna do.” 

Deep breath. _Be a man, Pines._ “Yeah, ok, we could get married if you want. I still have the apartment. We haven’t found a buyer yet.”


	2. Little Things Mean a Lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Little Things Mean a Lot" by Kitty Kallen (1954)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2C7SzKv2uLU)

_Blow me a kiss from across the room_   
_Say I look nice when I'm not_   
_Touch my hair as you pass my chair_   
_Little things mean a lot_

Filbrick Pines was a good man. 

Caryn knew this to be true because everyone said so. They wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. 

“We’re very happy together.” 

Caryn wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. 

Caryn sat at the kitchen table, her scrapbook and a bottle of paste next to her elbow, as she cut out the birth announcement Fil’s mother had sent to _The_ _Jewish Standard._

 **Mr. And Mrs.** **Filbrick** **Pines of Peterson, New Jersey announce the birth of their twin sons, Stanford** **Filbrick** **and Stanley Andrew, on Monday, June 15, at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Stanford weighed 7 pounds and 2 ounces at birth. Stanley weighed 4 pounds and 11 ounces. Mrs. Pines is the former Caryn Romanoff, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Menakhem Romanoff of Peterson, New Jersey.**

(“We agreed on Stanley,” Fil said, taking the as yet unnamed Baby Boy #1 from the nurse’s arms. He kept repeating that statement, as though that would somehow make the other twin disappear. 

“We _have_ a Stanley,” Caryn snapped. Little Stan was fussing in her arms. _The runt,_ was what Fil had called him. He’d taken one look at them, turned to her and said, _Great. Good job, Caryn. We’ve got a runt and a mutant._ “Now just shut up and pick a name!” 

“I don’t care. Just call it Stan...ford. Here,” Fil passed the newly christened Stanford back to the nurse. He walked out of the room, calling out behind him, “I’m going out for smokes.”) 

Caryn half-expected him to just leave and never return. That’s the old joke, right? _Daddy left for cigarettes ten years ago and hasn’t come back yet._ But Fil _did_ come back, because Fil was a good man. 

_Give me your arm as we cross the street_   
_Call me at six on the dot_   
_A line a day when you're far away_   
_Little things mean a lot_

“The correct term is polydactyly,” the doctor said. 

“Like the dinosaur?” Caryn asked. 

“What? No-no. It’s Greek, meaning ‘many fingered.’” The doctor leaned forward. “Your son has a very unusual case of it.” 

Fil brushed him off. “Look, we don’t need any fancy procedures to fix it. I’ve got a pocket knife that’ll do the trick.” 

“Mr. Pines, these aren’t nubs of flesh with a little nail like most cases of polydactylism. Stanford has an extra pair of fully articulated digits with blood vessels and bone and joints. It would require surgery to remove them.” 

“I’m not paying for that,” Fil insisted. “If it can’t be fixed at home, then the boy will just have to learn to live with it.” 

They left the doctor’s office and headed home. Fil stayed down in the pawn shop. Caryn went upstairs to the apartment. Grandma Pines was sitting on the sofa, knitting booties. The kids were in the playpen. Stan wiggled and babbled and sort of crawled. He made noises constantly. Fil would yell in the mornings, “What did you do with all my socks!?” and Stan would respond from his high chair, “Ooawwooo! Wowooaaaa aaabbbaa!” 

“Stan says they’re in the top drawer.” 

“That wasn’t funny the first time, Caryn, and it’s not funny now! … They’re not there!” 

“I’m just telling you what Stan told me.” 

“Damn it, Caryn!” 

Ford didn’t babble like his brother. He was as quiet as a church mouse next to Stan. Grandma Pines kept insisting that it wasn’t natural, that the boy was slow or maybe deaf. But Caryn wasn’t worried; he startled at loud noises and passed all the weird tests the doctors made him do. He was fine. She figured he wasn’t all that interested in talking just now. There were too many things he needed to discover – and put into his mouth – to bother with talking. 

While Stan still struggled to get his little body moving, Ford was roving around the playpen on his hands and knees, even pulling himself up onto his feet for a few seconds at a time, his little face scrunched as he attempted to put one foot out there and take his first step. Stan would watch him and wiggle and Ford would pause just long enough to look behind him, to check that Stan was still there. 

_Don't have to buy me diamonds and pearls_   
_Champagne, sables or such_   
_I never cared much for diamonds and pearls_   
_'Cause_ _honestly honey, they just cost money_

Jane and Suzy came up to see the babies. 

Stan was sitting in Jane’s lap, smiling and babbling while she cooed at him. “What a charmer!” she said. Stan soaked up the attention. He was in heaven. 

Ford, on the other hand, had decided that he was now afraid of strangers and kept squealing whenever Suzy tried to take him out of Caryn’s arms. Suzy barely brushed her fingers against his skin and he screamed as if he was being murdered. “You’re laying it on kinda thick, son,” Caryn told him. 

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!” Jane said, while Suzy tried not to look like she was pouting. 

“I’ve been here.” It was hard to go to the diner or the cinema or anywhere fun with one squalling baby, much less two. 

“Yeah...” Jane trailed off. “So, have you got any plans for this summer?” 

“Oh, you know, the usual: parachuting, mountain climbing, a tour of Europe...” 

“Jane and I are going to Los Angeles! My cousin knows a guy and he’s going to let us use his apartment for the summer.” Suzy interjected. 

Los Angeles. Caryn and Jane had been planning that trip since their junior year. They were going to tour all those big Hollywood mansions, drink coffee at a café, get discovered by a producer and become famous actresses. That was _their_ plan. _Their_ dream. “Los Angeles?” And she hadn’t meant to sound so shocked, so _hurt_ , but she felt like the rug had been ripped out from beneath her. 

Jane had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I know we always said we would go together, but... you’re a married woman now, with kids. You got your whole future laid out for you already. This is my chance, Caryn.” 

_Give me your hand when I've lost the way_   
_Give me your shoulder to cry on_   
_Whether the day is bright or gray_   
_Give me your heart to rely on_

Fil came upstairs with a hint of a smile. “Good day?” Caryn asked. 

“Some old lady pawned a ring. Twenty-four carats.” He showed it to her. It was a beautiful, old thing. A dark sapphire surrounded by diamonds. Caryn could picture it on the gloved hand of an elegant Victorian lady, stepping out of her carriage for a night at the opera. She sighed over the vision. “Kept insisting that she would come back for it in the next few weeks. She won’t though, I can always pick the losers out of a pile and she’s lost this for good.” Fil dropped it back into his pocket. 

He breezed past the playpen without so much as a glance at the children. 

Dinner was on the stove and Fil helped himself to a plate. He took a seat at the table, subtly dismissing her as he focused on cutting his steak, having finished saying everything he intended to that evening. Caryn grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and placed it next to him, her hands trailing up his arms to massage his shoulders. He shot her a glance, clearly aware that she was up to something, but amused by it all the same. “The shop has been doing so well lately,” Caryn began. 

“It keeps us afloat.” His words cut off the advance, so she went to outflank him. 

“You’ve been working so hard.” 

“Not as much as you’d think. I open the doors and the suckers walk right on in.” 

Her troops were getting slaughtered. She let her hands drift lower until they rested against his hips. “It’d be nice to get away from the kids for a bit.” 

Now he was getting irritated. “You’ve only had them around for eight months, Caryn. What is that you want?” 

“A vacation! Let’s go to Los Angeles, just you and me. We never had a proper honeymoon.” 

“What’d be the point of a honeymoon? I’d already knocked you up.” 

Caryn rested her chin on his shoulder and let her eyes grow shiny with unshed tears. She could have been a wonderful actress. Better than Joan Crawford. “Why can’t you be romantic for once? Don’t you love me?” 

Fil rolled his eyes. “I married you, didn’t I? I put a roof over our heads, I make enough money to feed and clothe us, I’ve never once raised a hand to you, now have I?” 

“No.” 

“Then what do you got to complain about?” 

Caryn didn’t know why she had done it. She and Jane used to do it a lot back in high school. Lipstick from Bateman’s, stockings from Le Boutique. Their fingers were lightning quick and into their purses the little treasures would go. All Caryn knew was that _she was so angry_ and her fingers disappeared from his waist, just long enough to pluck the sapphire ring from his pocket. 

_Send me the warmth of a secret smile_   
_To show me you haven't forgot_   
_For always and ever, now and forever_   
_Little things mean a lot_

“I tried to talk Fil into taking a break for the summer, take the twins for a nice family vacation. He’s been working so hard lately,” Caryn said. “But he just can’t leave the shop right now. Business is hopping.” 

“That’s such a shame!” Jane said. Suzy nodded and slurped down the last of her strawberry milkshake. 

Caryn smiled. “Yeah. He was feeling so guilty that he got me a little present.” She lifted her hand to show them the sapphire ring. 

Jane’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God, look at thing! It must have cost a fortune!” 

Caryn gazed down at the dark sapphire. She saw Fil putting it on her finger, kissing her knuckle, her wrist, her elbow. “He promised to make it up to me next year, was talking about _Paris_ , of all places to visit. He’s a good man.” 


	3. Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Lullaby" by Dmitri Shostakovich (1955)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qo9YirTj7xE)

_Мой сынок всех краше в мире -  
_ _Огонёк во тьме.  
_ _Твой отец в цепях в Сибири,  
_ _Держит царь его в тюрьме!  
_ _Спи, лю-лю, лю-лю!_

“What’s the point in throwing the boys a party they won’t remember?” Fil demanded. 

“It’s about family,” Caryn insisted. She made funny faces at Ford while wrestling him into a pair of trousers. 

Fil ground the heels of his palms into his eyes in a desperate attempt to stave off the oncoming migraine. “Family” meant crowds of people packed into their tiny apartment like sardines. It meant Caryn, his mother, _her_ mother, all of their aunts and female cousins vying for power in the kitchen with the same cut-throat politicking of the monarchies of old. It meant sugar and no naps and overly indulgent grandparents who were conveniently nowhere to be found when the twins inevitably turned into unholy nightmares. 

Worst of all, it meant the Parade of the Dead. 

There were only a handful of photographs in the apartment, all of them taken by Caryn on her Brownie 127 that she had gotten from God knows where because she had convinced herself she was the next Ansel Adams. She had taken a few of the twins, but most were “artistic” (Caryn’s word) landscapes. Fil didn’t mind those so much. 

What he didn’t like was when Aunt Sarah smuggled in the family photo albums and pretended she had simply stumbled upon them and, with her hand against her chest, threw back her head and said, _Oh Sweet Moses, Michael come look at your moustache, you were so young, and_ blah blah blah. 

Flip the page, point to a picture of Pop. _Shmuel was so handsome! He was Mother’s millennium baby! See? Right here, January 1, 1900. They printed his picture in the paper and everything._

Flip the page, point to a picture of Sherman. _Oh, Sarah, this was right before he left for the war, wasn’t it? How old would he be now? Thirty-one, thirty-two? No, thirty-one because Fil is thirty-three._

They retold the same stories over and over and over. Fil didn’t understand their desire to dredge up old memories and old wounds. It’s better not to indulge in that sort of sentimental behavior. The world would be a happier place if they just let themselves forget. 

_Колыбель твою качая,  
__Мама слёзы льёт.  
__Сам поймёшь ты подрастая,  
__Что ей сердце жжёт._

There was a flood of noise rushing through the apartment. Mrs. Krantz banged on the wall next door. Oblivious, they only talked louder in hopes of being heard over the racket Mrs. Krantz was making. Fil found himself battered on one side by the broad peasant accents of Russia and on the other side the broad peasant accents of New Jersey. 

Fil had made plans during the war. He was getting out of Luzon, he was going to make a lot of money, he was going to eat steak every night and maybe then he would finally get the taste of rat out of his mouth. “I’m a princess,” Caryn once told him, because Caryn was a lunatic. Not that it had mattered to Fil at the time. The crazy ones were usually pretty good lays (of course, you weren’t supposed to actually marry one). “Romanoff. Look it up. I belong to the Russian Imperial Family. My cousin was Anastasia.” 

He knew for a fact her grandparents came from serfs. She was of low-down, peasant stock, just like him, and their children were nothing more than a couple of low-down knuckleheads from New Jersey. 

He could have left her. Could have left _them_. Maybe he’d be married to one of those old-moneyed American families by now, the kind that came on the Mayflower and joined the DAR. They’d eat out at the country club. They’d have nannies to take care of the kids, maids to clean up. 

A raucous chorus of “Happy Birthday” started up as Ma brought out the cake. Stan managed to swipe a chunk out of it before she could even set it down. 

Fil moved away from the commotion and sat on the couch next to his father-in-law. Menakhem fiddled with the dial on the radio. “You know Dmitri Shostakovich?” Menakhem asked and pointed to the radio where something vaguely classical blared out from the speakers. “Famous Russian composer. Very good, which means KGB will probably shoot him one day.” 

Fil liked Menakhem. Menakhem didn’t ask him about Camp O'Donnell, and Fil didn’t ask him about Belbaltlag. 

“Oh, look what I found on the shelf!” Aunt Sarah called out, waving the photo album high in the air. There’s a stampede to the living room. It was time for the Big Parade. 

_Твой отец в Сибири дальней,  
_ _Я нужду терплю.  
_ _Спи покуда беспечально, а,  
_ _Лю-лю, лю-лю, лю-лю!_

Everyone had finally left. Ford had vomited blue icing all over the floor and cried himself to sleep. Stan had nodded off mid-bite in a valiant effort to finish a third helping of cake. He’d collapsed face first into it. Caryn had done her best to clean him off, but his skin was still tinged blue. 

Fil was brushing his teeth in the kitchen. Caryn sat on the couch and flipped through Aunt Sarah’s photo album. “For inspiration,” she said. Fil suspected ulterior motives. 

“Fiiilll...” She called. 

Fil grunted. 

She took that to mean ‘I’m listening.’ “What happened to your old Army uniform? You looked so handsome in it!” 

“Sold it.” 

“What about medals? Did you win any medals?” 

“Sold them too.” 

Caryn huffed. “Well, what about stories? Do you have any war stories?” 

“Nope.” 

Caryn got up from the couch and went into the kitchen. She folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “Really? No war stories? Nothing at all? You couldn’t have just sat on your ass and twiddled your thumbs. You must have fought.” 

“I didn’t fight in the war, Caryn.” Fil spat the toothpaste into the sink and turned on the faucet. There was a rumbling noise and a minute later, brackish water trickled out of the spigot. 

Caryn threw up her arms in frustration. “You couldn’t have gotten medals if you didn’t fight! You just don’t want to tell me!” 

“You’re right. I don’t.” Fil turned off the water and went to bed. 

_Скорбь моя чернее ночи,  
__Спи, а я не сплю._  
_Спи, хороший, спи, сыночек, спи,  
__Лю-лю, лю-лю, лю-лю_. 

There was a very nice travel set in the pawn shop. Fil sometimes thought about swiping one of the suitcases, stuffing it full of clothes and money, and leaving. 

Sometimes, he thought about waiting until Caryn left with the twins, to the store or her parents’ house or wherever it was she went during the day, and setting the whole building on fire. Fake his death. 

But Filbrick wasn’t going to take the coward’s way out and slink off in the middle of the night. He was a man and he was going to act like one, and someday he was going to teach those boys had to act like men too. They wouldn’t run from a fight, and they wouldn’t surrender like he did. They would die fighting. Like Sherman. 


	4. Que Sera, Sera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Que Sera, Sera" by Doris Day (1956)](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=CcWbZUgymkw)

_When I was just a little girl_  
_I asked my mother what will I be?_  
_Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?_  
_Here's what she said to me_  
_Que sera, sera_  
_Whatever will be, will be_  
_The future's not ours to see_  
_Que sera, sera_  
_What will be, will be_

"Bombs away!"

Stan, laughing, held out his arms. The loaf of bread slipped through his hands and bounced off of Ford's head and rolled to the bottom of the buggy.

"Whoops, sorry, baby." Caryn patted the brown mop on top of Ford's head. He grinned up at her and said nothing.

Three years old and still not a single word had come out of Ford's mouth. He didn't even try, never babbled or cooed like Stan used to do. "He's slow," Ma Pines kept insisting. Well, so what if he was? What was Caryn supposed to do about it? Ford was what he was and no matter how many times Ma Pines said "He's slow" there was nothing they could do to change it.

"Ford likes Sugar Smacks!" Stan yelled from the buggy.

Caryn browsed the cereal aisle. "Oh? Is it Ford that likes Sugar Smacks? Or is it _Stanley_ that likes Sugar Smacks?"

Ford glared at his brother while Stan looked downright devious. "We foth like it," he insisted.

Caryn grabbed a box of corn flakes.

She managed to get all the way to the butcher without incident ("throw the eggs! I'll catch 'em!" "I'm not throwing the eggs, Stan.") She parked the buggy out of the way and looked down at the twins. "You're going to stay in this buggy and you're not going to cry or fuss or make any racket, got it?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Good boys." She kissed Ford and then Stan, cupping her youngest's face between her hands and said, "You keep an eye on your brother, you hear? He's special and needs your help."

Stan nodded and Caryn gave him another kiss before leaving them to stand in line at the butcher's. She really should have known better, but somehow it was still a shock when she came back to find the buggy empty. "Stan?! Ford?!" She cried as she searched frantically down each aisle for her lost children.

Stan was easy to find. He was accosting some old man with his "stories." Caryn felt her knees go weak as relief flooded through her. That relief was quickly replaced with rage.

"My Pop threw the fall really, really hard and it landed in-- OW!" Caryn grabbed Stan by the arm and swatted his behind.

"What did I say about leaving the buggy?!"

"Ford left first! I just followed!" Stan gasped between sobs.

"Where is he? Where's your brother?"

Stan just shrugged and wiped his eyes as more crocodile tears spilled out. Caryn started pulling him along, flagging down a bagboy to help her search. When they finally found Ford -- outside, riding a coin-operated spaceship -- Caryn gathered him up into her arms and covered him with kisses.

_When I grew up and fell in love_  
_I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead_  
_Will we have rainbows day after day?_  
_Here's what my sweetheart said_  
_Que sera, sera_  
_Whatever will be, will be_  
_The future's not ours to see_  
_Que sera, sera_  
_What will be, will be_

"Is it foiling?" Stan demanded as he bounced around Caryn's legs.

Fil looked up from the newspaper. "Boiling," he corrected. "It's a 'B', Stanley."

"Leave him alone, he's fine." Caryn set the egg timer and started on the salad. Thirty minutes later, the deviled eggs were done, the salad packed, and the Pines Family were clamouring into the car, ready for a day at Glass Shard Beach. Fil made a sharp turn into the parking lot and hit the curb.

"Oof! Ow!" Stan cried as he tumbled out of the seat and onto the floorboard.

"See?" Fil demanded, looking back at the boy as he rubbed his head. "What did I tell you about jumping around back there? Now sit down."

Fil rolled into a spot and the four of them poured out of the car. Aunt Sarah and Fil's cousins were already there. Uncle Jim was at the grill, flipping over the burgers. Ford and Stan made a beeline for the water.

"Don't go past the shoreline!" Caryn yelled after them.

Stan waved his red bucket and plopped into the sand next to Ford. Caryn watched them from the corner of her eye as she laughed and talked with the adults.

"Hamburgers are done!" Uncle Jim cried. "Who wants cheese?"

"I'll take cheese," Filbrick said.

Aunt Sarah was scandalized. "You will not! Jim, how could you? It's not kosher!"

"Kids! Lunch!" Caryn called.

The boys came running. Caryn cut their hamburgers into bite sized pieces while the twins shoveled deviled eggs into their mouths. Stan suddenly dropped what was left of his egg onto the table and squirmed out of his seat.

"Where do you think you're going?" Fil asked.

"I need my fucket."

The table was silent. "What did you just say?" Aunt Sarah demanded.

"Fuck it!" He said each syllable loud and slowly.

"How dare--Fil, what have you been teaching--I can't believe--" Aunt Sarah sputtered while Fil's cousins started banging their fists on the table and shouting "Soap! Soap!"

Fil's face was starting to turn a deep purple.

Stanley stood there looking between everyone, fear written all over his face, until Ford suddenly shouted above the din. "He said 'bucket'!"

Fil was unable to contain it any longer. He swiveled in his seat to hide his face and laughed until his shoulders shook.

_Now I have children of my own_  
_They ask their mother, what will I be?_  
_Will I be handsome? Will I be rich?_  
_I tell them tenderly,_  
_Que sera, sera_  
_Whatever will be, will be_  
_The future's not ours to see_  
_Que sera, sera_  
_What will be, will be_

When Ford finally decided to speak, he spoke in full sentences with a vocabulary closer to that of a 10 year old. Now whenever Ma Pines came around, she kept saying "He's a genius!"

So he was a genius. He still liked to be tucked in at night, he still needed his mother to kiss his bruises, he still played games with his brother. Caryn figured they'll be alright.

"Seriously, though," Caryn said to Ford as she fixed the twins their breakfast. "You couldn't have led with talking?"


	5. School Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["School Day" by Chuck Berry (1957)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHG5-GxI_Es)

_Up in the mornin' and out to school_  
_The teacher is teachin' the golden rule_  
_American history and practical math_  
_You studyin' hard and hopin' to pass_  
_Workin' your fingers right down to the bone_  
_And the guy behind you won't leave you alone_

"Come on, smile!" Ma coaxed.

Stan only scowled harder and crossed his arms. His face was starting to scrunch up. Tears were on the way. Ford poked him in the side. Stan poked him back. They somehow ended up on the floor, Ford on top with his hands covering Stan's mouth, Stan kicking his legs, a muffled shout of "Gerroffme!" and then there was something wet and slimy sliding across Ford's hands. Stan had licked him!

"Ew!" Ford wiped his hands on Stan's face while Stan laughed.

There was the click of Ma's camera and they looked up to see her shrug. "Eh, good enough. Come on, you two, we gotta move or we'll be late."

Ford leapt to his feet. Stan got up more slowly, all trace of happiness gone as they shuffled out the door.

Ford grabbed one of Ma's hands and swung it between them. "Will our teacher let us do multiplication?"

"Probably not. This is kindergarten. She'll teach you your alphabet and how to count--"

Ford let out a growl of frustration. "But I already know all that!"

"But Stanley doesn't, so you can help him learn it."

Ford looked at his brother. Stan was clutching Ma's other hand and was half-hidden by her legs. He looked miserable.

"Here we are!" Ma said and smiled down at them. "What do you think?"

Despite all of his excitement, Ford couldn't help the sudden fear in his belly as he craned his neck to look up, up, up at the school building. There were a lot of kids running around, big kids too!

Ford shrank back. He glanced at Stanley, who gave him a small smile. Ford smiled back. They could do this.

_Ring, ring goes the bell_  
_The cook in the lunch room's ready to sell_  
_You're lucky if you can find a seat_  
_You're fortunate if you have time to eat_  
_Back in the classroom, open your books_  
_Keep up the teacher don't know how mean she looks_

Ford and Stan peeked inside the classroom. "There's gotta be a hundred kids in there!" Stan whispered.

"There's twelve," Ford whispered back.

Stan grabbed his arm. "Let's go." Ford found himself dragged into the room before he was ready.

"Hello!" The teacher greeted them with a smile. Ford smiled shyly back, but Stan marched them past her desk and right into a group of kids talking by the window.

"I'm Stanley and this is my brother Stanford," Stan announced.

"I'm Carla!" Said a little girl with brown pigtails. "Stanford is a funny name."

"We're twins." Stan said it as though that explained everything. Maybe it did, Ford wasn't sure.

"If you're twins, why are you shorter than him?" One squat, freckled boy demanded.

"'Cause Ford ate all the food when we were in Ma's stomach."

"You eat enough to make up for it now!" Ford shot back. "Hes short 'cause we're actually fraternal. We just look a lot alike."

"Yeah!" Stan beamed. "You can tell us apart 'cause Ford has a dimple in his chin!" Stan pointed at his face. "And he's got extra fingers!"

A ripple went through the other kids as shouts of "Ew!" and "Gross!" erupted through them. Ford looked down at his hands. They were gross? He didn't know they were gross! No one told him that! Ford shoved his hands into his pockets and tried not to cry. He didn't feel good. He felt scared and upset, like he did whenever Pa got mad at him, and other feelings he didn't know the name of yet.

"It's not gross!" Stan yelled hotly.

"Kids! The teacher called for them. "It's time for class. Everyone find your seat."

Ford dragged himself to a desk. He took a deep breath and then another. The tears pushed against the corners of his eyes.

"Stanford Pines? Do we need to call your mother?" The teacher asked.

Ford shook his head, his throat felt too swollen to speak.

He felt Stan slide into the chair next to him. Their writing book was in front of them. Stan reached down to grasp his hand, yanking it out of his pocket and shoving a pencil into it. Stan's five, not-gross, fingers rested on top of Ford's six and together Stan traced out S-T-A-N in big, shaky letters across the top of the page.

"It doesn't look neat!" Ford complained.

"Then help me write it," Stan answered back.

Ford took over then and wrote f-o-r-d in a neat, printed hand.

_Soon as three o'clock rolls around_  
_You finally lay your burden down_  
_Close up your books, get out of your seat_  
_Down the halls and into the street_  
_Up to the corner and 'round the bend_  
_Right to the juke joint, you go in_

"Time for recess!"

Ford once checked out a book from the library on elephants. It showed pictures of a stampede running over a village in India. Ford felt like he was in the middle of a stampede of very tiny elephants. Stan was pulling him along, forcing him to run or be dragged through the halls. They burst out of the doors and into the sunlight.

"Stanley! Come play house with me!" Carla called.

"NO!" Stan shouted and somehow managed to speed up as he raced across the playground. Carla pouted and stomped her foot. The stout, freckled boy from that morning -- Johnny Crampelter -- stood in the middle of a group of a boys and was tossing a red rubber ball into the air. "Can we play?" Stan asked.

"You can," Crampelter said. Then he pointed at Stanford. "But he can't 'cause we're playing catch and he'll just mess it up with all those fingers."

That sick feeling came back. "More fingers means he's better at catch, dummy!" Stan hotly retorted. That was a lie. Ford really was terrible at catch.

"Well, then, that's cheating and he still can't play!"

"Fine! Let's go swing!" Stan stomped towards the swings and sat down. Ford followed him.

"You can play with them if you want," Ford said.

"I don't want to play with them, I want to play with you." Stan kicked off. "Let's see how high we can go!"

Ford started swinging and soon they were perfectly in sync. Back and forth, higher and higher. He felt like he was flying. He looked over at Stan. There was a very wicked grin on his face. "Jump!" Stan commanded. Ford obeyed and let go. For a brief moment, he sailed through the sky like a bird. Then he landed on his feet, over-balanced, and fell over in a bunch of weeds, staining his shorts. He sat up, wheezing with laughter, and looked to see where Stan had ended up.

Stan...

Stan had landed on Crampelter.

_Hail, hail rock and roll_  
_Deliver me from the days of old_  
_Long live rock and roll_  
_The beat of the drums, loud and bold_  
_Rock, rock, rock and roll_  
_The feelin' is there, body and soul_

Stanley was sent to timeout, despite his insistence that it was an accident. Ford wasn't in time-out, but he sat next to Stan anyway. "Pa's gonna be so mad at you," Ford said as they watched a crying Crampelter tilt his head back in hopes of stopping the blood that was pouring out of his nose.

"Yeah." Stan turned to look at him, that crooked, wicked grin spreading across his face. "But it was pretty funny, huh?"


	6. Looking Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Looking Back" by Nat King Cole (1958)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-OGrUO_eDA)

_Looking back over my life_   
_I can see where I caused you strife_   
_But I know, oh_ _yes_ _I know_   
_I’d never make that same mistake again_

Johnny Crampelter had gotten big over the summer. Real big. 

And Stan... well, Stan had gotten glasses. 

It wasn't fair, he thought, as Crampelter’s meaty fist connected with his face, popping one of the lenses out of their frames. Stan laid on the ground, looking up at the sky. He could hear Ford yelling for a teacher. His face smarted, but not as much as his backside will when Pa found out he broke his new glasses. 

Ford’s face suddenly appeared above him. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” He didn’t move. Ford offered a hand, but Stan smacked it away. “I said, I’m fine! I don’t need your help!” 

Ford looked unimpressed. “Without me, Crampelter would have smashed more than just your glasses.” 

“Tattling isn’t helping. You’ll just make things worse for me!” 

“For you? _I’m_ the one that tattled. If Crampelter is going to target anybody, it’s going to be me.” 

Stan finally sat up. “Yeah, which means _I’m_ going to have to fight him!” 

“It’s not like I ever asked you to do that!” Ford snapped, his irritation rising. “And you’re not any good at it anyway!” Ford stomped past him and for one brief, terrifying moment Stan thought he was going to leave him lying there in the dirt, but Ford just picked up his glasses and the broken lens. “Maybe we can glue it back in. Then Pa will never have to know.” 

Stan pulled himself to his feet and looked at his brother. Ford’s glasses still looked brand new. Boy, was Pa steamed when he found out both of them needed their own pair. “How do you keep your glasses so clean and shiny?” 

“‘Cause I don’t run face first into fists. C’mon,” Ford said. “Let’s go find some glue.” 

_Looking back over my deeds_   
_I can see signs a wise man heeds_   
_And if I just had the chance_   
_I’d never make that same mistake again_

“Good job on that last math test, Stanley. Stanford, excellent as always.” 

Miss Johnson walked between the rows of desks and passed out their report cards. Ford beamed at the praise as he took his report card. Stan didn’t even need to ask what he got. Straight A’s, every time. If there was a letter higher than A, he’d get that too. Stan peeked at his and felt a flush of warmth spread over him at the 87 he got on math. That was _almost_ an A! The rest were C’s and low B’s -- the usual – until he saw his English grade. 

Marked in red ink was the letter F and a note from Miss Johnson— _Stanley continues to spell words phonetically, in a New Jersey accent (ex. He spelled chocolate “_ _chaclut"_ _). Please work with him on this at home!_

Ford leaned across the aisle. “What’d you get?” 

Stan quickly refolded his report card. “I almost got an A in math!” 

“That’s really keen!” Ford flashed him his own report card. There was a long line of A’s. “Look what I got!” 

“Neat!” 

The bell rang and then it was a free for all as the kids rushed out of their desks, happy that another school day was over. Stan wouldn’t have minded if school had lasted forever; _anything_ was better than going home to Pa with broken glasses and an F. Stan lingered by the doorway, pretending to pick at the dried glue stuck to his lenses. “Come ooonnnn,” Ford whined. “Let’s go!” 

Stan sighed and shuffled out behind him. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Hey, let’s go by Salty’s on our way home!” 

“Ma will kill us if she finds out we went to the boardwalk instead of straight home.” 

“Well, yeah, but she’s not gonna find out because she’s with Babulya and Dedulya, and Pa won’t care either way. It’ll be fun!” 

Ford’s token protests evaporated and with a wild grin, said, “Race you there!” 

_Once my cup was overflowing_   
_But I gave nothing in return_   
_Now I can’t begin to tell you_   
_What a lesson I have learned_

They took off down the streets toward the beach. Salty’s was near the entrance to the boardwalk. It was a little candy shop that they always dragged Ma to when she took them to the beach. Ford usually got licorice – _the weirdo_ – and, well, Stan didn’t believe in limiting himself. They stared through the window at the colorful displays, eyeing their prey like seasoned hunters. “How much you got?” Stan asked. 

“3 pennies.” 

“I got a nickel. If we can find two more pennies we can split a Mars bar.” 

Ford hummed and looked around. He elbowed Stan and pointed to the Coca-Cola machine. “Betcha there’s some change behind that vending machine.” 

They crawled on their bellies and looked into the dusty blackness. “I think I see something. Something shiny. I'm gonna try to get it.” Ford slipped his hand between the machine and the back wall of Salty’s, his face pressed against the rough clapboard. 

“I remember this.” 

Stan nearly screamed at the sudden closeness of a man’s voice. He turned around and saw a weird old man in a trench coat staring at him. “We’re not doing anything wrong!” Stan yelled. Then he thought, maybe he shouldn’t have said that because now it definitely seemed like they were doing something wrong. 

The man didn’t react either way though. He just looked at Stan, like he was a puzzle piece that didn’t fit anywhere. He was really starting to creep Stan out. “Ford. _Ford._ " 

“Almost got it... Ha!” Ford withdrew a very dirty dime, holding it aloft like it was the Holy Grail. “What’s the matt— _huh_.” 

Ford slipped up beside Stan and grabbed his wrist. The man looked between them, and then, like a toy soldier that had just been wound up, seemed to snap to. “Oh, money, I had forgotten about money. The last couple of dimensions still used a barter system. Wait, let me see.” The weird old man reached into his pocket and withdrew a couple of bills. He grabbed Stan’s hand – six fingers, huh, just like Ford – and dropped them into his palm. “Here. I don’t need them.” And with that the man wandered off down the boardwalk, staring at the ocean like he had never seen one before. 

Stan counted the money. $19. A Mars bar only cost 10¢. “That guy was a _looney_.” 

“That guy was an _alien_ ,” Ford said with a slack jaw. “Did you see his _gun_?! It was just like _Buck Rogers_!” 

“We can probably buy the whole store with this much money.” 

_That_ managed to pull Ford away from chasing after the alien/murderer/lunatic/all of the above. “Oh! Let’s get some licorice.” 

“Ew, no.” 

_Looking back over the slate_   
_I can see love turned to hate_   
_But I know, oh yes I know_   
_I’d never make that same mistake again_

“Good job, Stanford!” Ma reached over and hugged Ford as she looked at his report card. Then she turned her eyes on Stan. “What about you, honey?” 

Stan squirmed in his seat. Pa eyed him from across the dinner table with a suspicious look. That prompted Stan to quickly pull out his report card from his back pocket. He dutifully handed it over to his mother. “An _87_ in math! Oh, honey, you’ve improved so much! I’m so proud of you!” Ma exclaimed. 

As Ma continued to read down the line, heaping praise as she went, Stan could see that it was Ford who was now squirming in his chair, his eyes glued to his dinner plate. _What’s_ _he got to be so nervous about?_ Stan thought bitterly. 

Then Ma came to his English grade. “Oh, _Stanley_.” 

“Give it here.” Pa took the report card from Ma’s hand. Fear froze Stan as Pa read over it. His expression remained neutral, but that didn’t mean anything. Then Pa snorted, that sort of half-amused, half-irritated laugh that let Stan know that it was probably safe. “What’s this nonsense about his accent? He doesn’t have an accent. Does she want him to sound like the Queen of England?” 

Stan tried to catch Ford’s eye, to share in his good luck, but Ford wasn’t looking at him and his mouth was all pinched up like he was angry. Huh. Weird. 

“What the hell is all over your glasses?” Pa demanded. “Is that _glue_?” 

So much for his luck. 


	7. Once Upon a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Once Upon a Dream" from Walt Disney's _Sleeping Beauty_ (1959) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlCfJkAaWeU)

_I know you_  
_I walked with you once upon a dream_  
_I know you_  
_The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam_

Caryn had both of her boys squished on either side of her in the front seat of Fil's 1951 Buick. Her Dad was in the backseat with Mom, who had fallen asleep within fifteen minutes of the movie starting. A new record.

Dad leaned forward, bracing his arms against the front seat. "The music is by Pyotr Tchaikovsky," Dad told Ford and pointed at the screen where Princess Aurora was dancing with a bunch of woodland creatures. "Great Russian composer. Of course, he was murdered by the Tsar."

"He died of cholera, Dedulya," Ford corrected.

Dad let out a string of Russian curses. "Little ears, Dad," Caryn chided. Stan looked up from the popcorn for the first time since the movie started. Of course _that_ would get his attention.

"What does that matter?" Dad went on, in English this time. "They don't know Russian. _You_ certainly don't know Russian."

Ford whipped his head back around to look at Caryn, an expression of betrayal spread across his face. "You don't know Russian? Then what were all those phrases you taught me? Was it just gibberish?"

"We're missing the movie!" Caryn said as Stan buried his head to muffle his laughter. The dim light of the drive-in hid her rising blush.

"Tchaikovsky did not die of cholera," Dad insisted to Ford. "He was killed because he was homosexual."

Stan and Ford glanced at each other, frightened by the utterance of this taboo. "Dad..." Caryn warned.

"What? I did not curse this time!"

"Pa thinks it's bad," Ford muttered.

"Your father... is a know-nothing!" Dad announced. "I was a professor of chemistry at the Saint Petersburg Imperial University -- You see? You get your brain from _me_. -- And do you know what Stalin did to me? I was thrown into a gulag for a made-up crime just so the KGB could meet their quotas! I had published many papers, I was well-respected. None of it mattered! And you think the Tsar did not kill Tchaikovsky?"

Dad had gotten that half-wild look in his eye, the same look he got whenever Belbaltlag was mentioned. He was there, sitting behind Caryn in New Jersey, but he wasn't seeing her. Too busy looking at ghosts. His parents, killed in a pogrom in 1903. His twin sister, who had fled to Berlin after Dad had been arrested and was still living there when the war started. Caryn had been thirteen years old when she watched his plane leave Idlewild Airport, taking him to Berlin in hopes of finding her. He had gone to her house, only to be met with the business end of a pistol and a curt, "I don't any Masha Romanoff," by the house's new owners. Caryn had sat on the stairs and listened to him cry in Mom's arms, "Her furniture was still there! All of her things! They killed her! Oh God, they killed her!"

"Look!" Caryn nudged her father in the shoulder. "It's the witch!"

They all watched as Princess Aurora climbed the staircase towards the spinning wheel, a magical voice goading her forward. Stan let out a groan when the princess pricked her finger. "That's so stupid!" He whined. "Why would you do something just 'cause a dumb magic voice told you to do it? And when's the dragon fight? Benny promised me there was a dragon!"

_Yet I know it's true_  
_That visions are seldom all they seem_  
_But if I know you_  
_I know what you'll do_

Caryn parked the car on a side street and roused the boys out of the backseat. "C'mon, gotta get up. I can't carry even one of you, much less both. Up!" She shook their shoulders and they stumbled out of the car, still half-asleep. Caryn herded them through the side door and up the stairs to the apartment. The moment she opened the door she knew that something was very, very wrong.

The lights were all on and Fil was such a hardass about the electricity. She could see her undergarments -- lingerie, girdles, _everything_ \-- lying strewn across the floor. She didn't see Fil. "Boys" she hissed. "Go back downstairs and wait for me by the car."

"Huh? But--"

Caryn could only imagine what her face must have looked like, because Stan latched onto Ford's wrist before he could say another word and pulled him bodily out the door.

Caryn reached down and grabbed a poker by the fireplace. She inched her way forward, peeking around the corner into the kitchen. Fil was sitting at the table, arms crossed, waiting.

Caryn let the poker drop. "What the _fuck_ , Fil?!"

Fil reached into his pocket and pulled out a sapphire ring. He placed it on the table. Next came a gold watch. A silver spoon. A cigarette case. "I found these in your underwear drawer. Want to tell me what they were doing there?" Fil asked. He sounded so calm. Nothing at all like a human being. "You stole them from the shop."

He sat there, waiting for a reply. Caryn could feel herself shaking with rage. "Is that it?" She spat. "Are you going to send me to bed without supper? You can go fu--"

Fil's chair clattered to the floor and he was up and racing towards her. In a blind panic, Caryn made a grab for the poker and made a wild swing. Fil nearly fell on his ass as he dodged it, but Caryn was already running out the door and down the stairs.

"Get in the car! Now!" She barked at the boys. They scrambled into the backseat while Caryn started it up. The tires squealed as she peeled away from Pines Pawns.

"Ma? Ma? What's going on?" Ford cried from the backseat.

"We have to leave. We're leaving New Jersey."

"What? What-what about Pa?"

Caryn glanced at their tear-stained faces in the rearview mirror. "Your Pa is dead. He was killed by the Mafia. He was in real deep. That's why we gotta leave, okay? Hey, hey, no crying. You gotta be strong, okay? I need to be little men right now. Everything is going to be okay."

"Where are we gonna go?" Stan asked while Ford sobbed.

Caryn's thoughts raced in her head as she scrambled for an answer. She passed a billboard that proclaimed _Disneyland! The Happiest Place on Earth!_

"We're going to California. We'll be safe there."

_You'll love me at once_  
_The way you did once_  
_Upon a dream_

They had almost made it out of Pennsylvania when a cop appeared behind her, lights flashing. For a moment, Caryn thought about making a run for it. But Ford and Stan were in the backseat, asleep, Stan's head on Ford's shoulder.

Caryn pulled over.

She was separated from the boys and placed in a little room by herself. It was a couple of hours until she heard Fil's voice. "... very sorry about all this... suffers from delusions..."

The door was opened and there was Fil. "You told them I had been killed by the Mafia." It was not a question.

Caryn shrugged. "A girl can dream."

"Are you ready to behave?"

Caryn stood up. Fil held the door open for her. She went back to New Jersey.


	8. I'm Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["I'm Sorry" by Brenda Lee (1960)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6MHbyZn14LM)

_I'm sorry, so sorry_  
_That I was such a fool_  
_I didn't know_  
_Love could be so cruel_

"Stan! Ford! Breakfast!"

Stan flew down the stairs, his shoelaces still untied and his shirt on inside-out. Ford took his time.

When he finally came down, Stan was helping Ma, drizzling syrup on every pancake she slapped down. Stan was about to make off with his plate, but Ma grabbed him before he could. She planted a kiss on top of his head before letting him escape with a laugh. Stan took his place next to Ford, still smiling. Ma brought Ford his plate. She touched the top of his head and pressed her lips against it. Ford froze at her touch. Ma noticed -- how could she not notice? -- and he felt her falter. She awkwardly patted him, then reached over and ruffled Stan's hair, making him shout with delight.

"Where's Pa?" Ford wasn't looking at Ma when he asked, but she answered anyway.

"In the shop," she said with a shrug as she sat down at the table. "He had something to do with inventory this morning. I talked to Miss Jamison. She really liked your book report on _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , Ford. I'd love to read it too."

Ford chewed slowly. He didn't answer. A sharp kick connected with his shin. Stan glared at him, "Ford..."

Ford finally swallowed the single bite of pancake he managed to get into his mouth and jumped up from the table. "Come on, Stan, we're gonna be late."

He heard Stan shovel the rest of his pancakes into his mouth, give Ma a quick hug, and run down the stairs after his twin. Ford didn't slow down until he was standing in front of the big windows of Pines Pawns. The lights were off. "What're you standing around here for?" Stan asked around the mouthful of pancake he was still working on.

"Shop's dark."

"It's not open yet."

"Then where's Pa?"

"Probably in the back doing inventory, like Ma said," Stan said with a shrug. 

Like they could believe anything Ma said.

Ford refused to budge from his spot until he saw Pa walk out from the back, clipboard in hand. Only then did he feel something loosen inside of his chest.

_You tell me mistakes_  
_Are part of being young_  
_But that don't right_  
_The wrong that's been done_

"You really hurt Ma's feelings." Stan said as they walked along the boardwalk. It was off-season and most of the shops were closed.

Ford shrugged. "You need to stop believing everything she says."

"I don't! And anyway, her stories are funny."

Ford remembered holding on to Stan as he sobbed in the backseat of Pa's car while Ma drove off to who knows where. "You didn't think they were so funny last year," Ford muttered.

Stan glared at him. "Ma only did that because she loves us and wanted us to go with her."

"Did _she_ tell you that?"

" _And_ she's sorry about all that," Stan continued as if Ford hadn't said anything. "And if someone says they're sorry you should forgive them."

"Ma never said she was sorry!" Ford said hotly.

"She doesn't _have_ to say it, but she is!" Stan let out a huff. "I don't want to talk about it anymore... I bet I could walk on top of the rail all the way to the end of the boardwalk."

"What'll you give me if you lose?" Ford asked as he climbed up the wood fence right behind Stan.

"My new Superman comic."

"Batman is better. He uses his _brain_ to beat the bad guys."

"Superman doesn't need to think. He's got his fists. He's the strongest person in the universe."

"He's a deus ex machina," Ford insisted. He followed Stan, placing one foot in front of the other on the narrow beam of wood. Stan had his arms out and his bookbag balanced on his head.

"A _what_?"

"He gets a new superpower every time he gets into a pickle."

"Oh, and Batman's bat-gadgets that he pulls out of his bat-butt aren't a doo ex makina?"

Ford didn't answer. He was too busy falling. Stan jumped after him and they rolled down the beach.

_I'm sorry, so sorry_  
_Please accept my apology_  
_But love was blind_  
_And I was too blind to see (sorry)_

Sand poured out of every pocket and crevice on their bodies as they climbed the stairs to the apartment. Ford was still laughing when he pushed open the door and saw Ma sitting on the couch, knitting (badly).

Stan slipped away, leaving Ford alone with their mother. With a sigh, Ford reached into his bookbag and pulled out his book report. He held it out to her. "Here. It's my book report."

"Oh, Stanford, thank you. I remember reading this book when I was your age."

A lie. _To Kill a Mockingbird_ just came out earlier this year. "Ma..." Ford swallowed nervously. "Ma, I want to talk about what happened last year... when you told us Pa had died."

Ma blinked owlishly at him. "What?"

"When you tried to take Stan and I to Disneyland after telling us the Mafia had killed Pa."

"Honey... I never did that. Did you have a nightmare?"

Ford stood there, gobsmacked. He couldn't believe what Ma was saying. "You did though! I--I was so scared and--"

Ma reached for him and pulled him into a hug. "It's okay, I know sometimes nightmares can seem real, but you have to know that I would _never_ hurt you."

Ford wanted to struggle out of her grasp because she was _lying_ , she always _lied_ , but it felt so nice to hug her again. He held on and let her stroke his hair.


	9. Stand by Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Stand by Me" by Ben E. King (1961) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwZNL7QVJjE)

_When the night has come_  
_And the land is dark_  
_And the moon is the only light we'll see_  
_No I won't be afraid_  
_Oh, I won't be afraid_  
_Just as long as you stand, stand by me_

Stan was well aware that he drove Pa crazy, but Pa never seemed to realize just how crazy _he_ drove _everyone else_.

It was high summer and Pa was in a _mood_.

He always got like this when it was hot. Everything had to be a certain way. Stan had to be a certain way. No talking. No running. No laughing. Sit quietly. Don't make a sound. And Pa would sit in his chair, his paper open, but he wasn't reading it because it had been ages since he had turned the page. He just looked at it.

Ma always found some excuse to get out of the apartment. Sometimes she'd take Ford and him. Other times, they were left on their own. Stan and Ford would go to the beach or the cinema or _anywhere but here_ and when they got back Pa would still be sitting in his chair, still on the same page.

"Come on, let's go somewhere," Stan whispered.

"I want to finish my book," Ford insisted and, just to rub the point in, he didn't even bother to look up from his stupid _Hardy Boys_ mystery as he said it. "Besides, it's too hot to go outside."

Stan flopped onto his bed, the springs squeaking loudly underneath him. Stan froze. He could hear Ford's breathing grow shallow. They waited.

Nothing. No stomping feet or Pa's angry voice hollering from downstairs. They were safe.

"Dummy," Ford muttered.

Stan stuck his tongue out.

For five long minutes, Stan was good. He didn't make any noise or fidget or drop something. But that never lasted. Stan hopped up from the bottom bunk. "I'm gonna get a drink of water."

Ford rolled his eyes and marked his spot. Knowing Stan, he wasn't going to finish today. Right on cue, Ford heard the sound of glass shattering from downstairs.

He crept down the stairs and saw a broken cup. There was a puddle of water and ice at Stan's feet. He was scowling into his blurry reflection while Pa chewed him out.

"I am tired of you wasting every single thing that is given to you! Do you know what I would have done for a drink of water during the war?!"

"You said you didn't fight in the war," Stan muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said, I'll clean it up!" Stan yelled.

"That's not the point and you know it!" There was a fine tremble running throughout Pa's entire body.

Stan ignored Pa and started picking up the pieces of broken glass. Pa snatched his hand away and lifted him bodily out of the kitchen, through the living room, and right out the front door. "Out-- and don't come back until the streetlights are on."

Pa closed the door in Stan's face and stood there, looking around at the apartment like he had never seen it before in his life. Then his eyes fell on Ford. "You too! Out."

Ford skittered out of the apartment before Pa could haul him up. Stan was still glaring at the closed door. He gave it a bang with his fist. "At least give us our shoes!" Stan yelled.

Five minutes later the door opened just far enough to toss out two pairs of shoes.

_So darling, darling_  
_Stand by me, oh stand by me_  
_Oh stand, stand by me_  
_Stand by me_

Stan was glad to be out of that apartment, and best of all Ford was with him, not that Ford seemed all that happy about it. "He couldn't have given us money too?" Ford asked morosely as he tugged on his shoes. "What're we gonna do for lunch?"

"Let's go bother Mrs. Krantz!"

Across the hall was Mrs. Krantz's apartment. Stan and Ford rained their fists against the door until Mrs. Krantz cracked it open and peeked out at them. Stan had seen _Oliver Twist_ and he had perfected his "Please, sir, I want some more" hang-dog expression.

They managed to get some stale oatmeal cookies off of her before she shooed them away.

Their next idea was bottle collecting. The convenience store down the block would buy back old coke bottles for a penny, so long as they weren't broken. They scoured the beach and the boardwalk and managed to collect enough for some sandwiches and soda pops. As they walked towards the store they saw a panhandler hawking fireworks.

Stan eyed the bright red rockets, the sparklers and the bangsnaps. There wasn't enough money for both sandwiches and fireworks. Stan glanced at Ford and saw his wide, shiny eyes as he stared rapturously at the display. Stan grinned. Fireworks it was then.

It was, in Stan's humble opinion, a perfect day, even if they did go hungry. They threw bangsnaps at Crampelter and his goons when they found them digging around the rocks under the pier. They managed to sneak up behind a group of rowdy teenagers hanging out on the beach and set off the red rocket. They died laughing as the teens screamed and scrambled for cover. Stan was convinced the big football player had peed himself, but Ford insisted that he'd only spilled his soda on his lap. Then they had to make a run for it because some adults got mad.

Ford pulled him into a shop and they watched from the window as the cop ran right past them. Ford shot Stan a grin and they burst into laughter. It was the _best_ day.

_If the sky that we look upon_  
_Should tumble and fall_  
_Or the mountain should crumble to the sea_  
_I won't cry, I won't cry_  
_No, I won't shed a tear_  
_Just as long as you stand, stand by me_

When Stan and Ford entered the apartment, Pa was no longer in his chair and the paper was folded neatly on the side table. Stan let out a sigh. Pa's mood was over.

Pa was in the kitchen and fixing a cup of coffee. The spilled water and broken glass from earlier had been cleaned. Stan sniffed, still feeling sore about that. It wasn't like Stan had meant to do it. _Anybody_ could drop a glass, even Pa.

And Stan was going to prove it.

He reached it into his pocket and pulled out his last bangsnap. He could see Ford make a wild grab for it out of the corner of his eye, but it was too late. The little wad of white paper hit the ground and a loud _BANG!_ resonated throughout the apartment, followed by the tinkling of broken glass as the coffee cup splintered into pieces.

It took Stan a moment to realize what had happened to Pa.

Pa was underneath the kitchen table, his arms covering his head. He was shaking and muttering things. "I didn't take any of your _yen_ from no soldier... I wasn't me..."

"Pa?" Stan asked as he crept closer.

Pa looked up at him. His eyes were ringed with white with wild fear. Stan had never seen his father afraid. Pa had two emotions: annoyed and indifferent. He didn't tolerate fear. "Pa?" Stan asked again.

The fear evaporated and what was left was something that Stan refused to acknowledge as his father. " _You_ ," it hissed.

Stan made a desperate dive as the thing grabbed at him. Stan cried at out as it wrenched him back and he looked around for Ford, but Ford was gone. He had disappeared.

There was a popping sound as Stan felt his cheek crumple against the weight of something heavy and hard.

_Darling, darling_  
_Stand by me, oh stand by me_  
_Oh stand now, stand by me, stand by me_  
_Whenever you're in trouble won't you stand by me_  
_Oh stand by me, oh won't you stand now, stand_  
_Stand by me..._

Stan was lying stiffly on his back on the bottom bunk. He wanted to turn on his side, but that hurt too much, enough to cut through the fog of pills Pa had taken out of his desk drawer and forced into his mouth with shaking hands. "You swallow them," he said before Stan could even ask what they were. "And don't go crying about this to your ma. Next time you'll know not to pull stupid shit like that, huh."

He heard the closet door open and Ford shuffled out. Ford approached softly, glancing over him with wide, scared eyes. It irritated Stan and made him feel like he was a body laid out for a funeral, like how Grandma Pines had been when Ma had made him and Ford walk up and look at her waxy, not-alive face to "pay their respects," whatever that was supposed to mean.

Maybe Ford thought he was asleep, or maybe he thought he was actually dead, because Ford jumped a foot high when Stan snapped, "Where were you?"

Ford could only shrug helplessly and gesture to the closet. Stan assumed that meant he had been hiding in there for the past four hours.

"Are you okay?"

No. Stan did not feel okay. What Stan said though was, "Ma will be home soon."

They could hear Pa pacing downstairs. Up and down. Up and down.

Ford didn't say anything to that. Ford didn't believe their mother would be much help. He thought she was crazy, but Stan knew better.

Up went Pa. And then down again. Around and around the living room he went.

Pa's footsteps must have spooked Ford because he clambered into the bed beside Stan. He didn't realize he was shaking until he felt Ford's arms wrap around him.


	10. The Monster Mash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ "The Monster Mash" by Bobby Pickett (1962)](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bRLML36HnzU)

_I was working in the lab, late one night_  
_When my eyes held an eerie sight_  
_For my monster from his slab began to rise_  
_And suddenly to my surprise,_  
_He did the mash, he did the Monster Mash_  
_The Monster Mash! It was a graveyard smash_  
_He did the mash, it caught on in a flash_  
_He did the mash, he did the Monster Mash_

Generally, it was Stan who usually found himself in trouble. Ma said it was because he had a free spirit. Pa said it was because he was a knucklehead who never thought things through. Ford called him "impetuous," and although Stan didn't know exactly what that meant, he was pretty sure it was just a fancy way of saying "knucklehead who didn't think things through."

But this time it was Ford who found the trouble and it promised to be _glorious_.

Ford spread the map across their bedroom floor. "Ma should be gone at least a week," he said as he smoothed out the wrinkles. "It'll take us two days to bike to Leeds Point, and two days to get back. Unless Cousin Sofiya has her baby today, that should give us plenty of time before Ma gets back."

"What about Pa?" Stan asked. Ma was easy, but if Pa caught wind to this...

"Pa'll be glad to have the place all to himself, but I promised to do Benny's homework for a month if he covers for us and say we're staying at his house if Pa asks, which he _won't_."

Stan didn't think it'd be that easy, but he went through worse for less with Pa. "Alright," Stan nodded. "I'll handle the food."

Ford made a face.

"What!? We have to eat, Ford!"

"Yeah, real food, Stan. Not that junk you stuff your face with."

Stan waved his hand. "Fine, fine. Boring, old PB&Js it is. What're you going to do?"

Ford grinned wickedly. "I'm going to get bait and I know just where to get it."

Stan looked alarmed. "Doesn't the Jersey Devil eat people? You're not going to like... feed Crampelter to it or something, are you? Ford? Ford!?"

_From my laboratory in the castle east_  
_To the master bedroom where vampires feast_  
_The ghouls all came from their humble an idea_  
_To get a jolt from my electrodes_  
_They did the mash, they did the Monster Mash_  
_The Monster Mash! It was a graveyard smash_  
_They did the mash, it caught on in a flash_  
_They did the mash, they did the Monster Mash_

Mr. O'Connor looked down at Ford. "You want _what_?"

"All the leftover pig parts you can give me for..." Ford checked his pockets. "Two dollars."

Mr. O'Connor wiped his hands on his apron, but didn't rush to fill Ford's order. "Ain't you Jewish? I see your Ma go into Warshowsky's least once a week." Mr. O'Connor pointed to the kosher deli across the street.

"Yeah. So?"

"Then what do you want pig offal for?" He sounded very confused.

"I'm not going to _eat_ it," Ford insisted. "I just... need it."

Mr. O'Connor looked down at Ford, then shrugged. "Whatever you're up to, I don't want no part of it," he said as he went to get some leftover pig snouts. "You didn't get this from me, you hear?"

Ford nodded and took the brown bag from his hands. He raced out of the butcher's to where Stan was waiting with their bikes. "You didn't get any bacon?" Stan demanded. "I could have made BLTs."

"Did you tell Pa about us staying at Benny's?"

"Yeah. He made a grunting noise. Guess that means we're good to go!"

Ford dropped the pig snouts into his bookbag and hoped on his bike. Stan turned on the transistor radio he had duct taped to the front of his bike. " _The zombies were having fun, the party had just begun! The guests included Wolfman, Dracula, and his son!"_

"They did the mash!" Ford and Stan sang at the top of their lungs.

" _They did the monster mash._ "

 _"_ The monster mash!"

" _It was a graveyard smash._ "

"They did the mash!"

" _It caught on in a flash_."

"They did the mash!"

" _They did the monster mash._ "

They rode their bikes through downtown Peterson. Most folks had taken down their Halloween decorations, replacing their jack-o-lanterns and skeletons with fall wreaths and paper turkeys. Soon, it'll be Christmas trees and Santa Claus as far as the eye could see and Stan in the corner pouting because a driedel wasn't nearly as fun as an Etch-a-Sketch. Ford wasn't ready for Halloween to be over yet. Even if the Jersey Devil didn't exist (and, to be honest, it probably didn't), Ford and Stan were going to have as much fun as possible.

_The scene was rockin', all were digging the sounds_  
_Igor on chains, backed by his baying hounds_  
_The coffin-bangers were about to arrive_  
_With their vocal group, 'The Crypt-Kicker Five'_  
_They played the mash, they played the Monster Mash_  
_The Monster Mash! It was a graveyard smash_  
_They played the mash, it caught on in a flash_  
_They played the mash, they played the Monster Mash_

They rode across old country roads, heading south towards the Pine Barrens. As evening fell, they veered off the road to a clump of trees near a creek. Ford had Benny's Boy Scout handbook open and he attempted to re-create the lean-to shown in the picture with old branches while Stan gathered leaves to use as bedding. Stan had managed to stuff an old blanket into his bookbag, but he was starting to have serious doubts about sleeping outside as the wind picked up. "We should have planned this better," Stan said and flicked away a slug that was crawling around his wrist.

Ford shot him a withering look. Stan just roll his eyes, because woe be it to anyone who dared say an idea of Ford's wasn't brilliant. "It'll be fine," Ford said. "You always say you want an adventure. Well, here's an adventure!"

"I imagined a _warm_ adventure. Like treasure hunting in the Caribbean."

"That sounds boring."

"Because being eaten by the Jersey Devil sounds like a great time."

"Oh, I don't plan on being eaten." Ford held up the brown bag of pig parts and shook it at him. "And if this doesn't work... Well, I just need to be faster than you. Which I am."

Stan snuggled down beneath the blanket. He could see stars in-between the branches. It was nice to get away from the apartment, from the town, and just be somewhere _new_ with his brother, free from everything. What Stan said though was, "Some brother you are."

Ford got in next to him. "Oh, I'm the _best_."

Stan shoved his ice cold hands underneath Ford's jacket, grinning at the shriek his twin let out.

_Out from his coffin, Drac's voice did ring_  
_Seems he was troubled by just one thing_  
_He opened the lid and shook his fist and said_  
_"Whatever happened to my Transylvania Twist?"_  
_It's now the mash, it's now the Monster Mash_  
_The Monster Mash! It's a graveyard smash_  
_It's now the mash, it caught on in a flash_  
_It's now the flash, it's now the Monster Mash_

Ford opened his eyes, his body shuddering underneath the blanket. A thin layer of frost dusted them and he shook the flakes from his hair. The sky was still gray, but dawn would be coming soon. Stan was still asleep. His face was mashed against Ford's shoulder. His sleeve was probably covered in drool.

He heard something scuffling around and immediately sat up. He shoved his glasses into his face and looked around. Despite Stan's insistence, Ford didn't actually think there were any bears in New Jersey. But, well, it was better to be safe than sorry...

He could see a goat. Or, well, part of a goat. Mostly just it's head, the rest of it was hidden behind a bush. The bag with the pig snouts had been torn open and the goat was happily gnawing on one, which was weird because Ford was pretty sure goats were vegetarian.

"Hey, get away from there!" Ford jumped up to shoo the stupid goat away, letting Stan's head to fall to the ground as he ran up, waving his arms.

"Huh? What?" Stan mumbled as he looked around with sleep-crusted eyes.

The goat _chirped_ at Ford. Like a bird. And hopped out of the bush on two legs, it's bat-like wings flapping, and looked expectantly at Ford like the ducks at the pond.

Ford screamed.

The Jersey Devil let out a terrified squawk and darted back into the underbrush. Stan stumbled to his feet, his wide, myopic eyes seeing nothing but a blurry watercolors. "What's going on?! Ford?!"

"Run! Run! Go! Get on your bike!"

In his mad rush, Ford shoved glasses, bag, and blanket into Stan's arms and all but bodily put him on his bicycle. Ford was racing through the meadow, barely listening to Stan as he complained about having to pedal through the tall weeds.

The sun was just starting to crest over the horizon. As Ford's heart slowed to a normal level, a laugh broke free. The Jersey Devil was real and _he had seen it_.

_Now everything's cool, Drac's a part of the band_  
_And my Monster Mash is the hit of the land_  
_For you, the living, this mash was meant too_  
_When you get to my door, tell them Boris sent you._  
_Then you can mash, you can do the Monster Mash_  
_The Monster Mash! It's a graveyard smash_  
_You can mash, it caught on in a flash_  
_You can mash, you can do the Monster Mash_

"You were dreaming," Stan said as he flipped through the channels on the television. _Sensibly_. Ford found it incredibly irritating that Stan was acting like he was the voice of reason.

"I was wide awake, and anyway it ate the pig snouts. Are you saying I did that in my sleep?" Ford insisted.

"No, there probably was a goat. A real goat."

"Goats don't eat meat."

"Goats will eat anything, even metal! I saw it on _Looney Tunes_."

"You didn't see it, so you don't know what you're talking about."

Stan shrugged. "Should have got a picture then."

Ford thought about that for a moment. Stan was right. He should have thought to bring a camera. But then who would have ever thought that the Jersey Devil was real? "Next time, we'll bring Ma's camera."

"Next time?" Stan wrinkled his nose. "Next time better better be during the summer. It was way too cold!"

Ford looked at him earnestly. "But you'll come?"

"Yeah, of course I will." Stan rolled his eyes.

Their mother came up the stairs and into the apartment. She had her hands on her hips as she looked between them. "Mr. Warshowsky told me that one of you went into O'Connor's butcher shop." She held up her hands to stop any sort of denial from rising out. "I'm not mad, I just don't want you going out and sneaking around to eat pork. I'd rather you eat pork here in the house rather than off the street somewhere."

Stan gave her a look. "We are talking bacon and stuff, right? Not reefer?"


	11. The Times They Are a-Changin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["The Times They Are a-Changin'" by Bob Dylan (1963) ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=90WD_ats6eE)

_Come gather 'round, people_  
_Wherever you roam_  
_And admit that the waters_  
_Around you have grown_  
_And accept it that soon_  
_You'll be drenched to the bone_  
_If your time to you is worth saving_  
_Then you better start swimmin'_  
_Or you'll sink like a stone_  
_For the times they are a-changin'_

Fil hadn't even managed to fire a single shot during the war. He'd been too pissed scared. He had dropped his gun, held up his arms, and thrown himself at the mercy of the Japanese, which wasn't any kind of mercy at all.

It was the worst mistake of his life. Not even his marriage to Caryn could compare to Camp O'Donnell.

Fil knew now that one couldn't rely on the mercy of others, and that sometimes it was better to go out swinging than to live on another man's grace. That was something he had tried to teach his sons, not that the two knuckleheads ever learned.

Fil stood outside the park, his deli sandwich tucked under his arm. He watched as some to roly-poly looking kid shoved dirt into Stanley's mouth. Stanford had managed to snake his way on top of the monkey bars, out of reach of Sluggo's two friends. "If you don't stop, I'm going to tell!" Ford screamed.

The two goons started chanting, "Aw, he's going to tell! He's going to tell!" They jumped up to slap the soles of his shoes.

"Aren't those your boys?" Jimmy Davis asked as he came up beside Fil.

Fil sighed. "Yep."

"Huh. That big one's got them on the run."

"Yep." A thought suddenly came to Fil. "Hey, you still teaching boxing at the Y?"

"Yeah, you wanna sign up your boys?" Jimmy asked as they started walking back towards downtown.

"Something's gotta be done."

"You sign them up and when I'm through with them, the bullies will wish they had never even laid eyes on your boys!" Jimmy laughed.

_Come writers and critics_  
_Who prophesize with your pen_  
_And keep your eyes wide_  
_The chance won't come again_  
_And don't speak too soon_  
_For the wheel's still in spin_  
_And there's no tellin' who_  
_That it's namin'_  
_For the loser now_  
_Will be later to win_  
_For the times they are a-changin'_

The Americans were forced into a rice paddy and made to turn out their pockets. Yen, a box of matches with kanji written on it, anything Japanese that they had looted from the dead were confiscated and the perpetrators were led about fifteen feet away from the group and shot. Robbie had been standing next to him. He had seen what was going on and was throwing out coins by the handful. He might have gotten away with it if some Japanese kid in a uniform hadn't spotted the glint of metal in the mud. Suddenly it was _Fil_ with a gun pointed at his head. He was pushed towards where the line of bodies were waiting. Robbie yelled out, said it was his money. Fil was let go and there was Robbie, the muzzle resting against his temple, the crack and thunder of the trigger being pulled, and Robbie was just another body in the line.

Then they were told to march.

In 1944, _Life_ magazine had wanted to interview Fil about his experiences as a POW, especially his time at Camp O'Donnell. They called it the Bataan Death March. Fil told them to fuck off.

"Stop dancing and fight back!" Jimmy yelled from the side of the ring.

Ford looked like he was doing ballet. He wiggled between jabs and even let himself fall onto his back so he could roll across the mat and away from his opponent. Stan was next to Fil, clutching his side's with laughter.

"I quit! I quit! I'm not doing this anymore!" Ford yelled.

Jimmy looked at Fil. Fil waved his hand and Jimmy stopped the fight. But Ford didn't use this chance to make his escape. He stood in the middle of the ring and glared daggers at Fil. "This is stupid!" He said. "And I'm not going to do it!"

Fil shrugged. "If you don't have it in you, then nothing's going to change that."

Ford's face purpled with anger. "Only dumb meatheads like Crampelter fight with their fists!"

"And what are you going to use? Your brains?" Fil asked. "You gonna fight with geography questions?"

Ford ripped off his gloves and threw them onto the mat. He stormed out of the YMCA, letting the doors bounce off the wall as he went. Fil looked down at Stan. "You're up."

Stan gulped and entered the ring, picking up Ford's discarded gloves and fixing them to his hands. The teenage boy standing across from Stan lifted his hands. "Keep your hands in front of your face," he said. "Don't worry, I won't hit hard."

The teen's fist hit Stan square in the nose. But he hadn't run. Fil could work with that.

_Come senators, congressmen_  
_Please heed the call_  
_Don't stand in the doorway_  
_Don't block up the hall_  
_For he that gets hurt_  
_Will be he who has stalled_  
_The battle outside ragin'_  
_Will soon shake your windows_  
_And rattle your walls_  
_For the times they are a-changin'_

Fil watched Stanley fight with a critical eye. He kept dropping his hands.

A dull thump reverberated. Stanley fell back onto the mat, the wind knocked out of him. He wheezed and looked at Fil. "Don't turn to me," Fil said. "Get up."

Stan bit his lip and pulled himself back to his feet. The next time Stan went down, he got up on his own and Fil felt a bit of pride at that. Now, if only he could remember to keep his damn hands up. He wouldn't have to fall in the first place.

_Smack!_  


Down he went again. Fil sighed.

The drive home was quiet. Fil remembered a time when you couldn't pay Stanley to shut up. He picked at the seat and stared out the window, saying nothing.

"You kept dropping your hands," Fil said.

"Yeah," Stanley mumbled. "Sorry."

"You'll be a whole lot sorrier when someone knocks a tooth out or blackens an eye." Fil raised his hand in frustration. "Why'd you let them beat you?"

Whatever else Fil had been about to say faded as soon as he saw Stan flinch at his father's raised hand. Fil let it drop back on the steering wheel and parked the Buick on the curb next to the shop.

Caryn had dinner on the stove and Ford was at the table, studying. Fil sometimes wondered if the boy's body would eventually atrophy and all that would be left was a head. "How was practice?" Caryn asked. She had directed the question at Stan, but Fil took the time to answer it.

"He did well, for a beginner."

Stanley turned to look at him, his mouth hanging open at the unexpected bit of praise. "What are you standing around here for?" Fil growled. "Go wash up."

_Come mothers and fathers_  
_Throughout the land_  
_And don't criticize_  
_What you can't understand_  
_Your sons and your daughters_  
_Are beyond your command_  
_Your old road is rapidly agin'_  
_Please get out of the new one_  
_If you can't lend a hand_  
_For the times they are a-changin'_

Fil had spent months in the hospital after he had finally gotten out of the camp. He was sitting up in bed, tucking into his dinner, trying to pack on all the flesh he had lost, when some big-eyed kid in dress uniform came up to him. "Filbrick Pines?" He asked. "I'm so sorry about your brother Sherman. I was there when it happened. He took down four Germans by himself before they finally got him. It was quick and he never flinched."

Maybe it was wrong of him, but Fil couldn't help but think Sherman had gotten the better end. "Thanks for telling me," Fil said and went back to his tapioca.

Stanley had bullheaded doggedness to him. He kept dropping his hands, but at least he could take a punch and get right back up.

The ball rang and Stan retreated to his corner. Fil was about to snap at him for leaving his face unguarded for the twelfth time that night when Jimmy got into the ring. He whispered something to Stan's opponent and then hurried over to where Stan and Fil were waiting. There was a wild look about him. "Match has been cancelled," he said and before Fil could complain Jimmy continued, "the president's been shot."

_The line it is drawn_  
_The curse it is cast_  
_The slow one now_  
_Will later be fast_  
_As the present now_  
_Will later be past_  
_The order is rapidly fadin'_  
_And the first one now_  
_Will later be last_  
_For the times they are a-changin'_

Caryn and Ford were glued to the television as bulletin after bulletin was passed to the three newscasters jammed together at the tiny desk. "We are only dealing with facts," said one. "We know that President Kennedy was shot today in Texas in an assassination attempt. The president's condition is still unknown at this time, as is the identity of the assassin. We will update you as more information is given."


	12. Dancing in the Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Dancing in the Street" by Martha and the Vandellas (1964)](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=9KhbM2mqhCQ)

_Calling out around the world_   
_Are you ready for a brand new beat?_   
_Summer's here and the time's right_   
_For dancing in the street_   
_They're dancing in Chicago (dancing in the street)_   
_Down in New Orleans (dancing in the street)_   
_In New York City (dancing in the street)_

Everyone had managed to squeeze in at the table, some more comfortably than others. Ma was looking particularly bright-eyed as she sipped her coffee-- a clear sign that it wasn't her first cup that morning. Pa was looking cool and calm as he leaned back in his chair, newspaper in hand, his plate already cleared. Ford and Stan were jockeying for space, the sharp points of their elbows were their weapon of choice. Ford bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Stan stuck his tongue out at him.

Pa snorted as he scanned the paper. "Jersey City is going to the dogs," he said. "Listen to this: 'Scores of Negroes rioted last night and early this morning, hurling debris, looting stores, and shouting at police.

At least 30 persons, including 10 policemen were injured. Three of those hurt were whites whose car was stopped by a mob.

All of the city's 150 available policemen were sent to the scene, in the predominantly Negro Lafayette section.

The police said that about 500 Negroes were concentrated in several spots in the area at the height of the rioting but that many of them were only onlookers. Observers said 200 people, most of them young toughs, made up the core of the rioters.

The trouble began when Miss Dolores Shannon, a 26 years old Negro, was arrested on a disorderly conduct charge. The police said she was drunk and had been shouting and screaming. As they took her into custody, a man identified as Walker Mays was said to have interfered. He, too, was arrested on a disorderly conduct charge.

Both were taken to the Fourth Precinct station house at Communipaw Avenue. Soon afterward, about 40 Negroes marched in the station house, chanting charges of police brutality--'"

Pa's reading was interrupted by the sound of glass shattering across the floor. Ford's cup had been a casualty of the twins' war. Pa calmly folded the paper, picked up the two boys by the scruffs of their shirts and hauled them out of the apartment. "Go outside. Play. And I better not see you within ten feet of this building until lunch time," he said.

"Have fun, kids!" Ma called from the kitchen.

_All we need is music, sweet music_   
_There'll be music everywhere_   
_There'll be swinging, swaying, and records playing_   
_Dancing in the street_

"Crampelter managed to get in one good hit," Stan said with a casual shrug as he leaned against the brick wall of Gene's Ice Cream Dream. They would have gone inside to sit for a minute in the cool air, if they hadn't already been banned. Ford wiped at a bead of sweat that was gathering at his brow. Maybe he should have left his aviator's jacket at home. Ford saw his reflection in a shop window across the street. Naaah, he looked _awesome_ and that was worth the heat. "But, boy, was he surprised when I got right back up. Two good punches and he was down. Cried like a baby too."

Benny didn't look impressed. "Carla said you lost your tooth when the tetherball knocked you into the pole. She said there was blood everywhere." He took a long swipe of his mint chocolate chip ice cream cone. Ford looked on hungrily.

"Carla saw that?" Stan's carefully cultivated "coolness" evaporated.

"Yep. She was pretty grossed out by it. Later, nerds." Benny walked off and took his ice cream with him. Ford rubbed his chin. Maybe if they wore disguises they could sneak in...

Stan sank to the ground, a look of horror on his face. "Carla saw that."

Ford rolled his eyes. "So? She's seen you do lots of stupid stuff. The whole school has."

"But... This is different!"

"How?"

"I don't know, it just is!"

The door to the shop was open and Ford could feel the artificial chill of the electric air conditioner cut through the heat of the summer. There was a radio on the counter blaring out local news updates. "The rioting is still ongoing in Jersey City. Reports indicate that similar riots are happening in nearby Elizabeth, 25 miles from here."

Gene caught Ford's eye and gave a slow, menacing shake of his head. Ford sighed and nudged Stan with his foot. "Come on, let's go to the beach."

_Oh, it doesn't matter what you wear_   
_Just as long as you are there_   
_So come on, every guy, grab a girl_   
_Everywhere around the world_   
_They'll be dancing (dancing in the street)_   
_They'll be dancing in the street (dancing in the street)_

Stan trudged along beside Ford, kicking up sand (and the ever present broken glass of the well-named Glass Shard Beach) as he went. He was still mooning over Carla and Ford thought of how he could cheer him up, shrugged, and punched him in the shoulder.

Stan punched him back, but before Ford could get another one in Stan had already taken off over the dunes, laughing as he went. "Hehehehe, wait up!"

"Heh! Yeah, you should _keep_ up."

"I... I can keep up!" Ford nearly ran into Stan as they stopped and stared at a boarded up cave. Logically, Ford knew it probably led to a sewer or something, but _probably_ didn't mean _definitely_ and thoughts of the Jersey Devil and old men with alien blasters swam through his head.

"Neato!"

"Mysterious, boarded up cave!" Ford said. "It might be filled with lost prehistoric life forms! Or Mesoamerican gold!"

Stan grinned and gestured for Ford to step up. "Uh, ladies first."

Ford gave him another punch before grabbing hold of one of the boards and tugging with all that he had. Which only resulted in him landing on his butt.

Stan, the kind and caring brother that he was, pointed and laughed. "Good thing you've got your smarts, Poindexter. I've got the other thing. What is it called?" Stan pretended to think before throwing a right hook. "Oh, right, _punching_!"

The board shattered and Stanley was left with pieces of wood sticking out from his knuckles. Ford might have been alarmed if Stan hadn't laughed and shook them off with an, "Ooh, splinters!" Because apparently his hands were as hard as his head.

Ford pulled out a flashlight from his pocket and stepped inside. "Whoa, it's so creepy in here!"

Stan ran after him. "Hey, don't worry, bro. Wherever we go, we go together."

They splashed through the puddled water that had been left behind from the tide and wandered deeper and deeper into the cave. After squeezing through a narrow passage, the cave opened up into a natural bay and there, listing in the water, was an old, rickety sailboat. "A shipwrecked sailboat!" Ford breathed. "Possibly haunted by pirate ghosts!"

Stan stared up at it. "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen! And I've once seen a dead rat floatin' in a bucket!"

"Hahahaha, ew!" Ford pushed him. "What's wrong with you?"

_It's an invitation across the nation_   
_A chance for folks to meet_   
_There'll be laughing, singing, and music swaying_   
_Dancing in the street_   
_Philadelphia, PA (dancing in the street)_   
_Baltimore and D.C. now (dancing in the street)_   
_Don't forget the Motor City (dancing in the street)_

Ford and Stan didn't go home for lunch. They spent the entire afternoon dragging the boat out of the cave and into a secluded cove on the beach, their shirts tied and hoisted to the mast to show everyone who the boat belonged to. "Kings of New Jersey! Kings of New Jersey! Kings of New Jersey!"

They had just gotten the boat into position when something hard hit Ford in the back of his head, making his teeth rattle with the force of it. "Ow! What the heck?" He glared up at the cliff where Crampelter and his buddies were standing.

"Well, we'll, if it ain't the loser twins," Crampelter shouted down. "Nice boat. You get it at the dump?" The three monkeys started guffawing and giving each other high-fives.

Stan leapt up, his hands clenched into fists, ready to start swinging. "You would know, Crampelter! Get lost!"

"Listen, dorks, and listen good," Crampelter said. He pointed at Ford. "You're a six-fingered freak." He then turned to Stan. "And you're just a dumber, sweatier version of him. And you're lucky you have each other because neither of you will ever make any friends!" They laughed again and with a final farewell yelled out, "hahahaha, dorks and losers."

Ford looked down at his hands. It all came back to that, didn't it? He wished he could be normal like Stanley. Stan kneeled beside him. "Hey, don't let those idiots get to you."

"But I am a freak!" Ford protested. Why couldn't Stan just see what everyone else saw? What Ford saw? "I just wonder if there's anywhere in the world where weirdos like me fit in."

Stan nudged him. "Hey, chin up, buddy. One of these days, you and me are gonna sail away from this dumb town. We'll hunt for treasure, get all the girls, and be an unstoppable team of adventurers."

Ford smiled. "You really mean it?"

Stan lifted his hand. "High-six?"

"High-six." They slapped palms. "You know, you can't just keep adding six to things."

"Uh, yeah, I can. It's called wit, Sixer."

_They're dancing_   
_They're dancing in the street (dancing in the street)_   
_Way down in L.A. (dancing in the street)_   
_Everyday they're dancing in the street (dancing in the street)_   
_Let's form a big, strong line (dancing in the street)_   
_Get in time, we're dancing in the street (dancing in the street)_   
_Across the ocean blue (dancing in the street)_   
_Me and you, we're dancing in the street (dancing in the street)_

The streetlights were already on by the time Ford and Stan made their way back to Peterson. Their shirts were back on, not that they were happy about it. The cotton fabric felt rough against their sunburn. Ford's aviator jacket was tied around his waist. There was no point in trying to look cool when his skin was the same color as a tomato.

As they neared downtown, they could see a throng of people marching through the street. Most of them were black, and they were chanting something. The only white people they saw were the cops holding sawed-off shotguns. "Whoa," Stan breathed. "What's going on?"

Ford shrugged. He felt like he was missing something important.


	13. I'm a Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["I'm a Man" by the Yardbirds (1965)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAdCePtwoW4)

_All you pretty women,_  
_Stand in line,_  
_I can make love to you baby,_  
_In an hour's time._  
_Now I'm a man_  
_I spell M-A-N... man._

All of his life, there were certain universal constants that Ford could rely on: Ford had six fingers on each hand. Stan was short. Ford liked to study. Stan liked to make fart noises whenever a teacher sat down. Ford and Stan were the best -- and the only -- friends they had.

So Ford felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under him when Ma looked critically over the pair of them, dressed in their best suits, and said, "Oh no, this won't do at all. Stanley, you've shot up like a tree." Ford looked down at Stan's cuffs. They ended several inches above his wrists. His pant legs didn't cover his socks and the seams running along his shoulders seem to strain with the sudden expanse of his arms. It had happened so gradually, Ford didn't even realize that he now had to tilt his head slightly up to look eye-to-eye with Stan. "We'll have to buy you a whole new suit! Thank goodness yours still fits fine, Ford. I don't know how we would have afforded it if you had needed a new one too. Alright you two, take them off, I don't want them to get wrinkled before Benny's Bar Mitzvah. Stan hand me yours when you've finished changing. I can give it to Mrs. Johnson's boy."

Ma left the room. Stan immediately started flexing. "Guess we know who the superior twin is now, huh?"

Ford punched him in the shoulder. "Yeah, the one passing English."

"Sure, you've got the brains, but I can reach the top cabinet without a chair!" Stan crowed. He flexed again and there was the sound of cloth tearing as a seam popped. Stan quickly pulled off the jacket while Ford laughed.

Ford stole a quick glance at Stan as he changed back into his t-shirt. He looked like a real teenager, while Ford... Ford looked down at his thin arms, his scrawny chest. He was still a kid. It didn't seem fair to Ford. Stan was the younger twin.

"So..." Stanley said, looking weirdly hesitant and shy for the first time in probably their whole lives. "Do you think Carla would say yes if I asked her to the school dance?" The words all came out in a rush.

"What?" Ford wrinkled his nose. "I thought we weren't going. It's lame, remember?"

"Haha, yeah, totally lame! I gotta give these to Ma," Stan rushed out of their bedroom, waving his suit in hand.

_The line I shoot,_  
_Will never miss,_  
_Make love to you baby,_  
_You can't resist._  
_Now I'm a man,_  
_I spell M-A-N... man._

The Pines Family rode the train from New Jersey to Penn Station. Stanley was looking very smart in his new suit. He had "accidentally forgotten" his glasses, something which was happening more and more lately. Ford just looked like Ford, except he was more uncomfortable and kinda itchy.

They took a tunnel to the New Yorker Hotel. The front doors were opened and Ford and Stan gaped at all of its opulent, art deco beauty. They were so dazzled that it took them a moment to realize they were the only kids there. It was Benny's party, wasn't it? Where were all of his friends?

Pa's heavy hands landed on each of the twins' shoulders. Stan nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden touch. Pa leaned in close, "If you two do anything to embarrass the family--"

Pa didn't get a chance to finish his threat. Ma snaked her arm in Pa's and loudly called out, "There's Jessica Stein! Let's go say hi, _darling_." She threw a wink at the twins as she led Pa away.

Ford and Stan weaved through the adults as they hobnobbed and drank champagne. "A Bar Mitzvah is like Confirmation, ain't it?" Asked a man in a snazzy suit to a lady straining underneath the weight of all her gold and diamonds.

"Mafioso," Ford whispered to Stan. "Benny's dad is a lawyer and he works for the _don_."

"That's just a rumor that Benny started himself because he thought it sounded cool," Stan insisted. "He doesn't even know what a don is. He said Don was the Pope's name."

Ford cast a critical eye over the party. He wasn't so sure as Stan.

They found Benny at the bar. "Another ginger ale," he said. "On the rocks."

The bartender rolled his eyes and passed him his ginger ale, dressed up in a whiskey glass. The twins came to sit on either side of him and Benny waved his arms. "Order whatever you want. It's all free. I bet you losers won't see anything like it again."

He was probably right about that. The twins would be turning thirteen themselves in a couple of weeks and Ford doubted their Pa would spend even a fraction of what Benny's family had spent. "No offense, Benny," Stan said. "But your party's kinda lame."

Benny knocked back his ginger ale. "Yeah."

Stan and Ford shot each other a look and this time Ford didn't feel even a little jealous that he had to crick his neck, not when Stan had that grin, the one that promised adventure and possible law breaking. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Ford rubbed his hands. "I know just where to go."

Benny chickened out, leaving Ford and Stan to sneak out on their own. They managed to grab a bus to Queens, and as they rode through the streets they caught brief glimpses of the Unisphere, glittering from all the electric lights. It was the World's Fair.

They stepped off the bus and were astounded by the smooth curves of Space Age design, so different from the old-fashioned stuffiness of the New Yorker Hotel. They took in the sprawling sights, the fountains jettisoning water a hundred feet into the air, the smells, the sounds. "'Man's Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe,'" Ford read from a placard.

Stan sucked in a deep breath and let out, "NEEEEERRRRRDDDDD-- oh, hey, a dolphin show!"

_Goin' back down,_  
_To Kansas to,_  
_Bring back a little girl,_  
_Just like you._  
_Now I'm a man,_  
_I spell M-A-N... man._

Stan had an old Hebrew workbook out instead of his English text and he squinted down at the words, retracing them in the corners of the page. He had been freaking out about having to read from the Torah in front of everybody. His studying would probably go better if actually wore his glasses. Ford poked him with his pencil. "We're supposed to be on Chapter 20," he whispered.

Stan sighed and pulled out his textbook. It was on American poetry, specifically Elizabeth Barrett Browning. _How do I love the? Let me count the ways_ and all that nonsense. Even with the textbook open on the right page, Ford still couldn't get Stan to pay attention. He kept sneaking glances at Carla while Coach Stevens read aloud.

Ford poked him again. "Go ask her to the dance if you're going to be weird about it."

"I'm not being weird!" Stan hissed.

"You're _always_ weird--"

"Pines Number 1! Pines Number 2!" Coach barked. "I suppose you have better things to do than learn poetry?"

"Yeah, I do. I gotta read from the Torah next week and I only know how to say hello and goodbye in Hebrew and that's just because it's the same stupid word!" Stan shot back. The entire class erupted into giggles while Coach Stevens's face turned purple with apoplectic rage.

Ford let his head drop onto his desk.


	14. It's a Man's Man's Man's World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["It's a Man's Man's Man's World" by James Brown (1966)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H77fRz1rybs)

_This is a man's world, this is a man's world_  
_But it wouldn't be nothing, nothing without a woman or a girl_  
_You see, man made the cars to take us over the road_  
_Man made the train to carry the heavy load_  
_Man made electric light to take us out of the dark_  
_Man made the boat for the water, like Noah made the ark_

Old Mrs. Krantz leaned forward as Ma spread out the tarot cards on the kitchen table. She was in full get-up; her eyes heavily painted, a purple scarf wrapped artfully around her head, plastic gold earings dangling from her ears. Her eyes rolled up so that only the whites were showing. Stan, from his hidden spot on the staircase, started rolling a wooden spoon down a baking sheet. Not loud enough to be noticeable, but just enough so that there was the ever-present drumming sound, like a heartbeat thumping faster and faster. Mrs. Krantz was on the edge of her seat. 

Ma laid down The Hanged Man. A high-pitched wail started up from the back of her throat and Mrs. Krantz’s hands flew up to her face. 

Ford turned up the sound on the television and suddenly the sounds of Captain Kirk and the Starship _Enterprise_ flooded through the kitchen, breaking the spell. 

“Sulu, give me that!” Uhura said, reaching for the sword. 

Instead Sulu swung her around. “I’ll protect you, fair maiden!” 

“Sorry, neither.” 

Mrs. Krantz looked at her watch. “Oh, dear! I have to get supper started. It was very nice visiting with you. Bye-bye, now.” 

Ma walked her out of the apartment and as soon as the door had closed behind Mrs. Krantz, she turned to Ford, who didn’t look up from the television. Stan leaned against the doorway to the kitchen and watched the brewing argument. “Honey, what have I said about the TV when I’m working?” 

“You’re not working,” Ford insisted. “Your _defrauding_. There’s a difference.” 

“It’s not fraud, it’s theater!” Ma made a big wave with her hands. “People want excitement, they want meaning. I can give that. If anyone is a fraud, it’s your father. It’s shameful the way he takes all those sentimental objects away from people.” 

“He’s not a repo man. They willingly sell to him.” The telephone started to ring and Ford said, “I’ll get it.” Happy for any excuse to get out of this conversation. “Pines residence.” He listened for a few seconds before handing the phone out to Ma. “It’s for you.” 

Ma swished over to it and took the receiver form his hand, her head tilted up in an air of grieved nobility, like an old-timey movie star. “Hello, this is Caryn Pines.” 

Stan can see the moment it happens. She still has that faraway, stars-in-her-eyes look and then... it sort of crumbles. Comes crashing back down to reality. The receiver slips from her numb fingers and she’s on the floor, another high-pitched wail rising up from her, but this time it's _real_ and Stan is terrified. He’s on the floor next to her, his hands around her shoulders. “Ma? What is it? What’s wrong?” 

Pa came into the apartment. “What the hell is going on here?” He demanded. “I can hear you all the way downstairs.” 

Ford shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know! There was a phone call and then...” He gestured to Ma. 

Pa reached down and picked up the phone. “Filbrick Pines speaking. Hello? Anyone there?” Whoever was on the other end of the line hadn't hung up, because after a few seconds Pa said, “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Thank you for informing us. No, no, we’ll take care of it. Someone from Anderson’s will be there shortly to pick it up.” 

Pa hanged up the phone and immediately started dialing another number. “Boys, that was Shady Trees Nursing Home. Your grandfather has passed away.” He looked down at Ma. “Will you stop making that racket? I’ve got to call the funeral home. Someone has to pick up the body.” 

Ma stood up, letting Stan’s hands fall from her shoulders. “You... _You_... You have no idea what this feels like because you don’t have any emotions! You’re not human!” 

Pa didn’t even so much as twitch at the barb. “Wailing around on the floor isn’t emotion. It’s attention-seeking theatrics. Excuse me,” he turned his attention back to the phone. “Hello, is this Anderson’s Funeral Home?” 

Ma blanched, rocked back on her feet, and Stan thought she was going to faint, but she righted herself and turned around, storming out of the apartment. Stan shot Ford a helpless look, but for all his brains Ford was next to useless in these kinds of situations and all he could do was look between Pa, Stan, and the opened door Ma had just walked out of. Stan left Ford with Pa and hurried down the stairs after Ma. He found her in the shop, rooting through the keys Pa kept in his office desk. “Ma, what are you doing?” Stan asked. 

Ma didn’t answer. She picked up a small brass key and walked to the front room to a glass case. Ma unlocked it and pulled out an antique revolver from the display. “Ma?” Stan’s voice cracked with fear as Ma started back up the stairs again. “Ma, what are you going to do with that? Ma? Ma!?” 

Stan rushed up the stairs behind her just as Ma entered the apartment again and pointed the gun at Pa. “I’m gonna have to call you back,” Pa said as he stared down the barrel. He set the receiver back down on its cradle and reached out to grab Ford, still frozen in horror, by the back of his shirt. Pa pushed Ford behind him and then turned back to Ma, his hands on his hips, and said, “Really, Caryn? You’re going to try to pull this shit?” 

Ma didn’t say anything. She pulled the trigger. 

_Click_. 

Pa rolled his eyes. “You don’t really think I’m stupid enough to keep a loaded gun in the shop, do you? Boys, get upstairs.” 

“Pa--” 

“ _Now_.” 

Stan squeezed past Ma, who was still aiming the gun at Pa. She pulled the trigger again and the _click_ sounded like a cannon in Stan’s ear. He rushed to where Ford was and latched onto his wrist. 

_Click_. 

“Give me the gun, Caryn.” 

_Click_. 

Stan and Ford reached the bottom stair. 

“Car--” 

_BANG!_

_This is a man's, man's, man's world_  
_But it wouldn't be nothing, nothing without a woman or a girl_  
_Man thinks about our little bitty baby girls and our baby boys_  
_Man made them happy, 'cause man made them toys_  
_And after man make everything, everything he can_  
_You know that man makes money, to buy from other man_

Ford passed out the leftover Chinese takeout, but he placed it on the blue breakfast plates, so it technically counted as breakfast in the Pines household. Pa still had his right arm in a sling. He tried to stab at the noodles with his left hand, failed more often than he succeeded, his mouth growing tighter by the second. Stan clear his throat, gathered up his courage and said, “I’m gonna visit Ma today.” 

“You telling me this because you want bus fare?” Pa said. There was no emotion in his voice. Ma was right. He wasn’t human. 

“ _No_ ,” Stan insisted. “I have money.” 

“Then why you bothering me for?” 

“I’m just letting you know.” 

Pa didn’t say anything. He gave up on breakfast, threw his fork down, and said, “I’ll be down in the shop.” The front door slammed behind him. 

Stan looked at Ford. “You’re coming with me, right?” 

Ford wouldn’t meet his eye. “No, I... I don’t think so.” 

“ _Ford_ \--” 

“Stan,” he said, looking up at him. “She tried to kill Pa.” 

“It was a heat of the moment thing!” 

“There was enough time for her to pull the trigger five times until it finally went off.” Ford gave him a disappointed look. “Sometimes it feels like you’re blaming Pa for what happened.” 

Bitterness rose up in Stan and threatened to strangle him with it. “Yeah, well,” his voice cracked again. “Ma never fractured my eye socket, _so_...” 

“You’re not looking at this logically,” Ford rubbed his forehead. “Ma’s not in her right mind.” 

Anger boiled just beneath Stanley’s skin. “ _She’s our mother_. I don’t care if she’s crazy or not. _You_... you’re just like Pa sometimes! You always have to be right!” 

Stan got up from the table, not caring that his chair was knocked back as he stormed towards the door, grabbing his coat as he went. The light, misty rain did little to cool his temper. He walked the six blocks to the bus station and took the first available Greyhound to Marlboro. All too quickly, he was out of Peterson, passing Glass Shard Beach, and going deep into a sea of pine trees. The bus took him through little country towns, finally stopping at the township of Marlboro, New Jersey where Stanley managed to hitch a ride to Marlboro Psychiatric Hospital. 

The hospital was a very stately-looking building, made of red brick and Tudor-style wood panels. The lady at the front desk escorted him to the reception hall where his mother was waiting, sitting at a card table with a book in her lap. Ma was wearing a simple gown and Stan could see that she had lost a lot of weight. There were deep, yellow and brown bags underneath her dark eyes, but she smiled warmly when she saw Stan. “Honey, how are you? You didn’t come all this way by yourself, did you?” 

“Ford had a big science fair project he had to finish, but he’s really sorry and sends you his love,” Stan lied. He didn’t mention Pa. 

Ma nodded. “School is very important. You’ve been doing good too, haven’t you?” 

“Oh, yeah, I got mostly B’s, only one C this semester.” Lie. 

“I’m so happy for you!” Ma beamed at him. “The doctor thinks I should be ready to go home soon. There are so many new treatments for consumption, it’s not like the old days.” And then, as if to prove she really was in a sanitorium for tuberculosis patients, she lifted a lace handkerchief and coughed delicately into it. 

So, this was the lie she had decided on. Stanley could work with that. “Just take it easy,” Stan said. “You’re not supposed to strain yourself, or you can make your illness worse. Doctor’s orders.” 

_This is a man's world_  
_But it wouldn't be nothing, nothing, not one little thing, without a woman or a girl_  
_He's lost in the wilderness_  
_He's lost in bitterness, he's lost lost_

Stan had made sure that everything was perfect for when Ma came home. He had ordered Chinese takeout, but at least it was from the _nice_ Chinese restaurant this time. “Remember, Ma thinks she was in a hospital for tuberculosis,” Stan told Ford, who was fiddling with the silverware. 

“I’m not going to indulge her,” Ford insisted. 

“What’s the big deal?” Stan demanded. “It’s easy. Just play along. It’s even kind of fun!” 

Ford gave him this _look_. “You know,” he said. “You really worry me sometimes.” 

Stan couldn’t ask what he meant by that, because Ma and Pa were coming through the door. Ma was wearing big Jackie O sunglasses and sort of fluttered as she walked. “Move out of the way, Caryn,” Pa grumbled. “I’d like to eat sometime today.” 

Ma sped up her grand entrance. “Boys,” she called out in a voice just above a whisper. “I’m home!” 

“We’ve got dinner ready for you,” Stan said. 

Ma finally abandoned her playacting and ran towards them. She kissed Stan on the cheek – it used to be on top of his head, but he was as tall as she was now – and then ran over to Ford to hug and cuddle him. Pa took a seat at the table without saying anything. He picked up a fork and Stan couldn’t help but notice the white-knuckle grip and the slight tremor that ran through his hand. 


	15. Somebody to Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Somebody to Love" by Jefferson Airplane (1967)](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=a-C9pUGszsw)

_When the truth is found to be lies_  
_And all the joy within you dies_  
_Don't you want somebody to love_  
_Don't you need somebody to love_  
_Wouldn't you love somebody to love_  
_You better find somebody to love_

A cold war was brewing in the Pines household.

What little glue that had kept them together for so long was crumbling. Fil avoided Caryn, Stanford avoided _both_ of them, and only Stanley remained in Caryn's corner. And worse, Fil was seeing another woman. Despite all of the problems that they have had, infidelity was something Caryn never had to worry about. Fil was too much a creature of habit. She could time his schedule by the minute, and _had_ one day when she was bored. But now he was going out at all hours, staying out late, and Caryn was going to be damned if she would allow herself to be usurped in her own home. She was not going to let Fil kick her to the curb for someone new.

Caryn sat in the passenger seat of Stanley's run-down Diablo that he had bought off of some slimy dealer for $100. She really shouldn't be letting Stanley drive, since he didn't actually have a license yet, but desperate times and all that. Caryn had wrapped herself in a scarf and her large Jackie O sunglasses. It would have been the perfect disguise if Stan's car hadn't announced their presence to the entire tri-state area. Stan kept throwing glances at her as they trawled the neighborhood for Fil's Buick. "So..." He said. "What exactly are you going to do when we find him?"

"I haven't decided," Caryn said. Stan had made her empty her purse and pockets of any weapons before agreeing to do this.

"But you're going to divorce him, right?"

Caryn turned to look at him. "Divorce? Why would I divorce him?"

"Uh, because he's cheating?"

"I can't divorce him! What would people say?"

"You think it'd be any worse than what people were saying after you shot him?" Stan asked incredulously.

Caryn stiffened. "That never happened."

Stan shot her a look. It was the same expression she saw on Ford's face, on Fil's. The one that said, "I am not impressed." She hated seeing it on Stanley's face. "And what would I do if I did divorce him? Wait tables? I've never had a job in my life."

"That's not true. What about your psychic business?"

"That doesn't earn me enough to--STOP!" The breaks sounded like they were dying as they rolled to a stop. Fil's car was across from them, parked in Suzy's driveway. That _bitch_. 

_When the garden flowers, baby, are dead, yes and_  
_Your mind, your mind is so full of red_  
_Don't you want somebody to love_  
_Don't you need somebody to love_  
_Wouldn't you love somebody to love_  
_You better find somebody to love_

Caryn kicked the boys out of the house and told them to spend the night at Benny's. Ford had made some protest about a test he had to study for, but Stan had pulled him out of the apartment saying, "She's either going to murder Pa, or they're going to bone. Either way we _don't_ want to be here." Ford had shut up after that.

Caryn pulled out all the stops. A new dress. Her hair styled perfectly. All of Fil's favorite foods cooked to perfection.

When Fil came up from the shop, he took one look at everything, tilted his head back and said, "Jesus Christ, Caryn."

Caryn put her hands on her hips. "We're Jewish. I dont think he's going to help you."

"I'll call on anybody to get me out of this. Zeus. Thor. Whoever."

"I'm not going to eat you."

Fil didn't look so sure about that.

Caryn had a trump up her sleeve. Something that would blow her dress, the dinner, fucking _Suzy_ out of the water. She was going to say something she had never said to him before. "I'm sorry."

Fil stopped short. "What?"

Caryn shrugged. "I'm sorry. For all of it. I know I was never what you wanted, but... We're here now. What else is there? I'm not going to be a famous Hollywood actress. You're not going to start a million-dollar business in New York. I don't want to spend the rest of my life resenting you."

"Then what do you want?"

Caryn stepped forward. "I want to start again."

Fil still wasn't convinced. He rubbed his chin. "There'll need to be some changes around here. You're going to see a doctor."

"Alright." _Lie_.

"I mean it. If you try to do anything like you did last year, I will not hesitate to send you back to the asylum. For good, this time."

"Of course."

"And for God's sake, Caryn, just be... _honest_." Fil looked almost broken when he said that.

Caryn let her eyes grow shiny and wet. "I want that. I want to be that." _Lie._

And scene.

As they made there way to the bedroom, Caryn imagined herself on _The Tonight Show_ with Johnny Carson as he interviewed her on the touching scene. "And where did you find the inspiration for such emotion?" He asked.

Caryn laughed modestly. "It's really all about giving the audience what they want."

_Your eyes, I say your eyes may look like his_  
_Yeah, but in your head, baby_  
_I'm afraid you don't know where it is_  
_Don't you want somebody to love_  
_Don't you need somebody to love_  
_Wouldn't you love somebody to love_  
_You better find somebody to love_

The moment Caryn got back from the doctor, she rang up Suzy. "You'll never believe what the doctor told me! You know I told you how sick I had been feeling lately? Well, it looks like Fil and I are going to have another baby!"

For a long second there was nothing but static on the other end of the line. Then, a very soft and hesitant, "Oh?"

"I am so excited! I mean, I'm already thirty-three. I thought my baby days were over. But here we are!"

Suzy let out a high, breathy laugh. "Yeah. Hey, listen, I've got to go, but congratulations."

Caryn smiled as she hung up. That was one thing taken care of. Now there was just Fil. She could only imagine what he would say about another baby. They're expensive. The apartment is too small as it is. Stan and Ford would be leaving in a couple of years, why ruin that by starting all over again.

But to her shock, Fil said none of things. He just nodded and said, "If it's a boy I'd like to name him Sherman."

Caryn was dumbstruck. She had heard Fil say that name maybe two times in all the years they had been married, and he hadn't complained. Hadn't raged like he had with Ford and Stan. He just sat in his chair, looking very old for his forty-five years.

"It just better not be twins!" He cried.

Caryn laughed. "Well, I don't know how much control I have over that, but I'll try."

_Tears are running down and down and down your breast_  
_And your friends, baby, they treat you like a guest_  
_Don't you want somebody to love_  
_Don't you need somebody to love_  
_Wouldn't you love somebody to love_  
_You better find somebody to love_

Sherman was a singleton, thank God.

Stan looked down at the wriggling, red potato in his arms, scrunched up his nose and said, "Why is his head so _pointy_?"

"Well, you see," Caryn explained from the hospital bed. "As he's being pushed out of the birth canal--"

Stan didn't stay to hear the rest. He passed his new brother to Ford -- who looked _terrified_ of the baby and Caryn really wanted to laugh but it hurt too much -- and all but fled the room. Ford raised the baby to first Caryn, then a nurse, begging with his eyes for somebody, anybody, to take the baby from him.

Fil finally took pity on the boy and scooped him from Ford's arms. "You'd think the thing had rabies or something," he grumbled.


	16. California Dreamin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["California Dreamin'" by Bobby Womack (1968)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ytX3IaFHGk)

_All the leaves are brown_   
_And the sky is grey_   
_I went for a walk_   
_On a winters day_   
_I'd be safe and warm_   
_If I was in LA_   
_California_ _dreamin_ _’_   
_On such a winters day_

Out of all the lies and stories Stan has told over the years, the only one that made Ford angry was, “You’re my only friend.” Because while that might have been true when they were kids, things had certainly changed when they entered high school. 

Despite the acne and the baby fat, Stan was good looking. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and strong from boxing. Ford wouldn’t exactly call Stanley charismatic, but he wasn’t shy. He would walk right up to anyone and introduce himself, and that alone caught him enough admirers. Ford wasn’t Stan’s only friend, but Stan _was_ the only friend Ford had and that him feel incredibly lonely. 

Ford heard the roar of the Diablo and peeked out from the confines of the Stan-o-War. He thought he would be working on the boat alone today. Stan had mentioned something about Carla, made a bunch of kissy noises, and then had taken off as soon as the last bell rang. Ford watched as Stan hopped over the dunes, running full tilt over to him. He skidded to a halt in the sand, bracing his hands against his knees to catch his breath, and said, "Do you want to go roller skating?" 

Ford blinked. "Come again?" 

"Okay, look." Uh oh, those words always came right before one of Stan's 'stories.' "Carla has to babysit her little sister and she's not allowed to have me over. Her dad thinks I'm no good, don't know what _that's_ about, but if Carla takes Rosie to the skating rink and _just happens_ to bump into me and you, well then it's not a date, it's just a group of friends helping her with the kid." Stan smiled at him. 

"So, you want me to babysit while you and Carla make out?" Ford asked drily. 

"No! I mean, a little, like fifteen minutes tops. The rest of the time I'll be right there helping Carla with Rosie." 

"What about the Stan-o-War?" 

"It'll be here tomorrow. C'mon, Ford, what's the hold up?" 

Ford folded his arms. "You mean aside from being a third wheel, making a fool of myself, and falling on my ass trying to skate?" 

"You won't be a third wheel!" Stan protested. He said nothing about the falling on his ass part. "It's a... group activity." 

"I hate group activities." Nobody in his group ever talked to him, nobody ever contributed, which forced him to do all the work while the others took all the credit. “And I’m not a part of the group. It’s not like Carla and I are friends.” 

Stan gave him a disappointed look. “You could be if you just talked to her... Do you know what your problem is?” And before Ford could reply, Stan pressed on. “You’re a coward.” 

“ _What_.” 

“Coward. Fraidy-cat. Chickenshit. You have all of these great thoughts and ideas and you’re too scared to tell anybody about them.” 

Ford felt himself grow hot with anger. “Yeah, because they’ll laugh!” 

“So? People laugh at me all the time and I never shut up.” Ford couldn’t help it, he burst into laughter. Stan pointed at him. “See? Point proven. Now, are you coming or not?” 

_Went through the church, just me_   
_I stopped along the way_   
_When I got down on my bended knee_   
_And I began to pray_   
_You know the preacher digs a call_   
_'Cause_ _he knows I'm_ _gunna_ _stay_   
_He knows I'm_ _gunna_ _stay, I told him so_   
_California_ _dreamin_ _’_

Ford had a death grip on the railing. A bunch of middle schoolers zoomed past, giving each other smirks as they laughed behind their hands. He was about to give up and hit the arcade when Carla skated up next to him. He always felt a little bad for Carla. She was a pretty girl, but her Dad made her wear these ridiculous skirts and dresses that looked like they belonged back in the ‘50s. “You’re doing great!” 

Ford huffed out a breath that _might_ have been a laugh. “No need to stroke my ego. I’m not Stan.” 

Bright peals of laughter rang out. “Okay,” she admitted between breaths. “You’re terrible, but at least you’ve got a sense of humor about it. I didn’t know you made jokes!” 

“Oh, yeah, jokes, hula dancing, trombone. I do it all.” 

She giggled. “You seem so serious in class!” She said. 

“It’s hard to compete with Stanley.” 

They both turned to look at Stan, who was in the middle of the rink and holding Rosie up by her ankle as the little girl howled with laughter. Carla put her hands on her hips. “Stanley Pines! If you drop her...” 

Stan flashed her a smile. “Relax, I watch Shermie all the time. I know how to take care of kids. This is the only proper way to hold 'em.” He hefted her up and down and swung her from side and side. Rosie giggled and shrieked. He finally set her down, _gently_ , and Rosie managed to stay on her feet for a few steps before she fell on her butt, still dizzy from being held upside down. “Go home, Rosie, you’re drunk.” 

Rosie gave up completely on trying to stand and just flopped onto her back. She held up her arms and waved them at Stan. “Pick me up again! Pick me up!” 

“Pick her _right side up_!” Carla yelled. 

Stan listened to Carla and hefted Rosie back onto her feet. He held onto her arm while she wobbled around the rink. “Come on, I’ve got you, right foot, then left,” Stan said and the two started off again. Carla left Ford and skated to Rosie’s other side. She took her hand and the three of them started off on a lap around the rink. They looked like a family. 

That was when it hit Ford that they would never go sailing together. 

Because Stan looked happy like this, it looked _right_ . Stan the Family Man. Stan would get a 9-to-5 after high school, marry a girl, have a couple of kids and a house with a white picket fence. It just seemed so _obvious_ to Ford all of a sudden, more logical than some stupid dream of treasure hunting. And what did Ford have? Science, and studying, and daydreaming about monsters and magic. Nobody knew him here. Sure, they knew _of_ him. The genius, the six-fingered freak. But he’d never gotten close to anyone but Stan. Ford was struck with this overwhelming fear he couldn’t name. He suddenly felt... like he didn’t exist. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If nobody knows who Stanford Pines is, does he actually exist? 

_Oh, somebody hit me now_   
_I_ _wanna_ _go so bad, yeah_   
_Cos all the leaves are brown_   
_And the skies are grey, yeah_   
_I went for a walk_   
_On a winter's day_   
_I'd be safe and warm_   
_If I was in LA_   
_California_ _dreamin_ _’_   
_On such a winter's day_   
_Such a winter's day_

Ford had a dozen brochures for various colleges spread out around him. He couldn’t hold on to Stan forever, so he might as well start planning. There was, of course, West Coast Tech in California, but who was he kidding? He’d never be able to get in there. 

Ford heard the muffled sounds of socked feet creaking up the stairs. He looked at the clock. It was nearly 3 in the morning. Stan opened the door as silently as possible, stared dumbly at Ford sitting at the desk, surrounded by paper, rolled his eyes and said under his breath, “Of course, you’d still be up.” 

“What are you doing coming home so late?” Ford asked. 

“Shhh! Do you want to wake up Ma?” Stan closed the door and dumped his shoes by the bed. “I took Carla on a drive in the Stanmobile.” 

“Don’t call it that.” Ford turned in his chair to face Stan. There was a deep red flush crawling up his neck and a funny smile on his face. “What time did you take her home? I’m surprised her dad didn’t kill you.” 

The red tint grew brighter and, holy shit, Stan was actually blushing. Stan didn’t blush, mainly because Ford wasn’t sure he understood the concept of shame. “He didn’t know. She snuck out the window.” He finally looked up at Ford. “We had sex.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” 

“How was it?” 

“Ehh,” Stan shrugged, turning somehow brighter. “Quicker than I thought it would, to be honest, but _awesome_.” 

There was a tally sheet in Ford’s head that compared his accomplishments with Stan’s. Underneath Stan’s name were all these checks: Friends, Car, Girlfriend, and now Sex. The perfect American teenager. Ford had nothing underneath his name. Stan was leaving him behind, blowing him out of the water. “Uhh, congratulations? Is that... Is that the right thing to say?” 

Stan laughed. “No, that’s really weird, but I like it. Thanks, Ford.”


	17. Fortunate Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Fortunate Son" by Creedence Clearwater Revival (1969) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5NzAksjfDI)

_Some folks are born made to wave the flag_   
_Ooh, they're red, white and blue_   
_And when the band plays "Hail to the Chief"_   
_Ooh, they point the cannon at you, Lord_   
_It_ _ain't_ _me, it_ _ain't_ _me, I_ _ain't_ _no senator's son, son_   
_It_ _ain't_ _me, it_ _ain't_ _me; I_ _ain't_ _no fortunate one, no_

**The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th. But in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.**

Stan read the paragraph, then re-read it hoping it would actually stick. It was already 6 o’clock and he still hadn’t gotten past the first page. Ford had his nose stuck in some science magazine. There was a picture of Neil Armstrong on the cover. Ford had become obsessed over the summer, after they had all watched the moon landing on television. Stan had been hard-pressed to drag him away from his physics books. At this rate, the Stan-o-War was going to rot. Stan kicked him from his spot on the couch. “Hey, do my homework.” 

Ford didn’t even bother to look up. “Do it yourself.” 

“I’ll give you a dollar.” 

“Resorting to bribery now, are we?” 

“If you don’t, I’ll fail and I’ll have to retake the class and you’ll be all alone next semester,” Stan said in a sing-song voice. 

Instead of laughing, Ford jerked to his feet and gathered up his magazines and books. “I’m busy. If you fail, then that’s on you.” He stormed up the stairs and Stan was left reeling. What was that about? Stan felt like an ass and debated whether or not he should follow after him. Ehh, probably better not to poke the bear. Stan tossed his Lit book and switched on the television. 

The CBS News Special Report flashed across the screen and an announcer spoke, “Because of the CBS News Special Report which follows, Mayberry R.F.D. will not be presented tonight but will return next week at its regularly scheduled time over most of these stations.” The screen switched to an ugly room, with ugly curtains, filled with old, white men. “The Draft Lottery!” The announcer sounded so excited about it. “A live report on tonight’s picking of the birthdates for the draft here at Selective Service Headquarters in Washington.” 

One of the correspondents stepped in front of the camera. “It was twenty-nine years ago when the first and most famous lottery number, 158, was drawn as the United States entered World War II. Tonight, for the first time in twenty-seven years, the United States has again started a draft lottery and the famous first pick tonight is September 14, which means that for nineteen-year-olds born on September 14 local draft boards will induct those men.” 

Poor bastards. Stan had seen the shit that was coming out of Vietnam – who hadn’t? – and like hell did he want anything to do with that. They’d have to drag him kicking and screaming if his number was ever drawn. “Stanley, did you finish your homework?” Ma called as she came into the kitchen. 

Stan sighed. “Still working on it.” He picked up his textbook again. Shirley Jackson. Whoever told her she could write? 

_Some folks are born silver spoon in hand_   
_Lord, don't they help themselves, oh_   
_But when the taxman comes to the door_   
_Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yes_   
_It_ _ain't_ _me, it_ _ain't_ _me, I_ _ain't_ _no millionaire's son, no, no_   
_It_ _ain't_ _me, it_ _ain't_ _me; I_ _ain't_ _no fortunate one, no_

Stan lingered by his desk as the rest of the class filed out. Ford flashed him a curious look, but a quick whisper of, “I’ll meet up later,” sent him on his way. Mr. Dawson was pretty cool as far as teachers went. Still a nerd – and dressed like one too – but he wasn’t uptight or anything. He had never made fun of Stanley or any of the other back row students like Mr. Andrews, and never acted like he was about to pull a knife and rob him of his wallet like Mrs. Carmichael, so yeah, pretty cool as far as Stanley was concerned. Plus, he laughed along to Stan’s jokes. 

He smiled up at Stan from his desk. “Yes? How can I help you, Stanley?” 

“Can I get a different on my paper?” 

“Do you mean a deferment?” 

Uhh... “Maybe?” Stanley shrugged. 

Mr. Dawson nodded. “I can give a week’s extension. Is something going on I should be made aware of, or are you having trouble with the assignment?” 

“The second one.” 

“Well, I have some time, what are your thoughts on the short story?” Mr. Dawson asked, leaning forward in his seat. 

Nobody really asked Stan what his thoughts were on... pretty much anything. “Uhh...” Stan shrugged again. “I don’t have any? Yeah, yeah, I think that’s where the problem might be.” 

“Come on, Stanley, you’re not as simple as you pretend to be. Tell me what you think of _The Lottery_.” 

Stanley shrugged. He couldn’t stop. “No offense, teach, but it’s pretty stupid. I mean, the villagers don’t even know why they’re killing folks. They just do it ‘cause that's what they've always done.” 

Mr. Dawson smiled brightly like Stan had just said something profound. “I think you’re closer to hitting the truth of the matter than you realize. Take a couple of days, and if you’re still having trouble, come back to me and we’ll work through it.” 

Stan thanked him and walked out of the class. Carla was waiting by the door, fiddling with the flower barrette in her hair. “Hey, everything good?” She asked. 

“It’s fine, just needed a little extra time on an assignment. Where’s Ford?” 

“He said to tell you that he was going straight home today.” 

Stan frowned. “We were supposed to work on the boat after school.” 

“You can show me the boat!” Carla batted her eyelashes at him. 

“Sorry, it’s kind of a me-and-Ford thing.” 

Carla hummed. “You know, I’m starting to think there isn’t even really a boat and it’s all just pretend...” 

Stan grinned down at her. “I know what you’re doing and it won’t work.” 

“Fine, fine, then let’s go to the boardwalk. No sense in working on the boat if Ford isn’t going to be there, right?” 

She had a point. Stan drove them to Glass Shard Beach. It was December and none of the shops were open, but also that meant there was no one on the beach. Except them. They chased each other, barely even noticing the cold as they ran up and down the shoreline. Carla grabbed the front of her long skirt and shoved it between her legs, pulling it up and around to tie the ends of it around her waist to create make-shift shorts. “When I get out of this dump town,” she said. “I’m going to buy the shortest mini-skirt I can find and I’ll wear it _without_ stockings.” 

“You brazen harlot, you.” 

Carla laughed and kicked sand at him. “Hey, is that _Crampelter_?” She asked, pointing up ahead to a man standing in front of the water. “I haven’t seen him since he dropped out.” 

Stan turned to look but what caught his eye wasn’t the way Crampelter’s shoulders were hunched or the scared look in his eye, it was the glint of metal in his hand. A gun. Crampelter was alone on the beach with a _gun_. “Uh, Carla?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Go back to the Stanmobile, nice and easy-like, okay?” 

She frowned. She hadn’t noticed. “What? Why?” 

“Just... can you do it for me, please? I’ll promise I’ll explain in a little bit.” 

Carla put her hands on her hips. “You’re not going to fight him, are you? You’re not kids anymore.” 

“I’m not going to fight him.” No _fucking_ way was Stan going to fight him now. 

“Alright.” With one last, lingering look Carla started walking back to the car. Stan debated whether he should go with her and leave well enough alone. Crampelter wasn’t any friend of his. What did it matter to him what the jerk did? Let him blow his brains out on the beach, the world would probably be better for it. Stan sighed. _Ah, shit_. 

“Hey, uh, you okay there, buddy?” Stan called as he approached. He could feel himself shaking and not because of the cold. 

Crampelter looked up. “Stanley Pines? What are you doing here?” 

“It’s a free beach.” Stan kept shooting glances between Crampelter’s face and his hand. “You wanna maybe put that down?” 

Crampelter gave him a confused look, before rolling his eyes. “It’s not what you think.” 

“Yeah? Because, you know, standing out here alone, with a fucking _gun,_ people tend to jump to conclusions.” 

“Do you know how old I am, Pines?” Crampelter asked. 

“Are we talking mentally or...?” Damn it, Stan. Don’t run your mouth at the guy with the gun. 

“I’m nineteen. I failed kindergarten.” Crampelter laughed. “Some brainiac I am. How the fuck do you fail kindergarten?” 

Stan looked around, hoping someone would appear to help him out. “Okay... and what does this have to do with anything?” 

“My birthday is September 14, 1950.” 

Oh... _oh_. “Shit.” 

“Yeah.” Crampelter kind of laughed, kind of shrugged, then pointed the gun down at his right foot and blew off his toes. 

_Some folks inherit star spangled eyes_   
_Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord_   
_And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"_   
_Ooh, they only answer, "More! More! More!"_ _Yo_   
_It_ _ain't_ _me, it_ _ain't_ _me, I_ _ain't_ _no military son, son_   
_It_ _ain't_ _me, it_ _ain't_ _me; I_ _ain't_ _no fortunate one, one_

**“All right, folks.” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.” Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.” Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath, “I can’t run at all. You’ll have to go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.”**

**The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles. Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, Come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him. “It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and they were upon her.**

Stan didn’t really think about what he wrote, his thoughts were too full of his childhood bully mutilating himself in a desperate attempt to keep from being shipped off to Vietnam. He just _wrote_. When he finished the assignment, he was actually kind of proud of it. It was personal, it was all of his thoughts and his feelings and it was _right there_ for people to see. 

Mr. Dawson gave him back the assignment, face down. A big red F was scrawled across it and the note- _'I_ _really wish you had come to me instead of listening to propaganda. Our soldiers are brave men fighting for what is right. You’ve completely misinterpreted the point of_ The Lottery. _You’re better than this._ ' 

“So?” Ford asked. “What’d you get?” 

Stan crumpled the paper into a ball. “Eh, English is for losers. I already speak English, why do I need to take a class in it?” 


	18. Wild World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Wild World" by Cat Stevens (1970)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6iC6K8fZDik)

_Now that I've lost everything to you_   
_You say you wanna start something new_   
_And it's breaking my heart you're leaving_   
_Baby, I'm grieving_

Stan hadn’t really thought about what would happen once he finished high school. Graduation had been the finish line for so long that the immediate aftermath between then and sailing away with Ford was a murky darkness filled with what he always assumed to be parties, money, and girls. Or, well, just _girl_ , really. Carla McCorkle. 

They were sitting on the hood of his car and she was tearing a blade of grass into two. “No one in my family has ever gone to college,” she said without looking at him. 

Yeah, yeah. A big opportunity. Never dreamed of getting in when she applied. Blah blah blah. Stan didn’t bother applying. What would he even study if he actually got in? Smartassery? Punching 101? 

Then she said something that really hurt him. “I just don’t want to stick around and get married right out of high school, like my mom. Or _your_ mom, for that matter. I want to actually be something.” 

Because if she married him, she’d be nothing, right? 

“Are you mad at me?” 

She was shaking like a leaf, tears clinging to her eyelashes. What the fuck? What kind of question was that? It made Stanley feel vile inside, like he had done something wrong. He wasn’t her father, and he sure as shit wasn’t _his_ father. “Of course I’m not mad at ya,” he said and laid down on his back to look at the stars, feeling suddenly too big. Or like she was too small. Something. “I could never be mad. Did you think I would be?” 

“No. I don’t know. A lot of guys would be mad.” 

“Yeah, well, those guys are assholes.” 

And then, whisper soft: “Are we still going to prom?” 

Stan could never be mad at Carla for breaking up with him, but honestly prom was asking just a little too much from him right now. “No.” 

Carla nodded and wiped at her cheek. She laid down next to him and with her chin on his shoulder said, “Sorry. Thanks.” 

_But if you want to leave, take good care_   
_Hope you have a lot of nice things to wear_   
_But then a lot of nice things turn bad out there_   
_Ooh baby, baby, it's a wild world_   
_It's hard to get by just upon a smile_   
_Ooh baby, baby, it's a wild world_   
_I'll always remember you like a child, girl_

Stan felt like he was getting his second break-up talk in as many days, except you’re not supposed to get it from your family. “Look, Stan, I can’t pass up a chance like this. This school has cutting edge programs and multi-dimensional paradigm theory.” 

Yeah, yeah. Big opportunity. Blah blah blah. “Beep boop. I am a nerd robot. That’s you. That’s what you sound like.” 

Ford laughed and shrugged. He looked so much more relaxed than he had in the past few months. Like a load had been lifted from his shoulders. “Hehe. Ah, well, if the college board isn’t impressed with my experiment tomorrow, then okay, I’ll do the treasure-hunting thing.” 

Being anyone’s second choice, their consolation prize, left a bitter sting, but when it was Ford? “And if they are?” 

Ford punches his shoulder. “Well, then, I guess you better come visit me on the other side of the country!” 

Ford leaves him there on the swing. What is Stan supposed to do in-between these visits? Scrape barnacles off the taffy shop like the principal said? The Stan-o-War required two people to operate, so that was out. Crampelter had gotten a job with the city collecting trash. Decent money all things considered, and Crampelter would put in a good word for him after he drove him to the hospital with his toes in a paper sack. 

What a dead end life. Was that really what he had to look forward to? He really was a loser. 

He couldn’t really explain why he’d gone back to the school, except that he couldn’t yell at Ford for reaching for the stars, and he was tired of yelling at himself, so the next best thing was that stupid project. “This is all _your_ fault, ya dumb machine!” He yelled and slammed his fist against the table. Too hard, too hard and angry and violent and for a second Stan was reminded of Carla shaking like a leaf as she told him she wanted to break up, of their own hard and angry and violent fathers, and Stan may be a loser but he was _never_ going to be like Filbrick. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no. What did I do?” He picked up a piece and fit it where he thought it went. “There. Alright. Good as new. Probably.” 

Hopefully. 

Apparently not. Ford stood in front of him with a wild look in his eyes. “Can you explain what _this_ was doing next to my broken project!?” He waved a crumpled bag of toffee peanuts in Stan's face.

“Ho-okay, I might have accidentally been, horsing around--” 

“This was no accident, Stan; _you_ did this! You did this because you couldn’t handle me going to college on my own!” 

“Look, this was a mistake! Although, if you think about it, maybe there’s a silver lining. Huh? Treasure hunting?” 

Ford shoves him back onto the couch. “Are you kidding me!? Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future!?” 

A large hand grips the front of Stan’s shirt and that old childhood fear is back like it had never left – because it hadn’t, no matter how big and tall Stan had gotten – and Pa’s face is right there. “You did _what_ , you knucklehead?!” 

He can hear Ma and Baby Shermie wailing from the kitchen. “Stanley? What’s going on in here?” 

“Wait, no! I can explain! It was a mistake!” 

But Pa is pulling him through the apartment. He picks up an old duffel bag from the closet and hauls him into his and Ford’s bedroom. Things are thrown into it and then he’s up and moving again, outside this time and he has to scramble a little to catch the bag that’s thrown at him. “You ignoramus! Your brother was going to be our ticket out of this dump! All you ever do is lie and cheat and ride on your brother’s coattails. Well this time you cost our family potential _millions_ ! And until _you_ make us a fortune, you aren’t welcome in this household.” 

“What!?” Stanley glanced between his father and Ford looking down at him from the window. “Stanford, tell him he’s being crazy!” Ford’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, like when he’s upset and doesn’t want to show it, and then the curtains flutter and he’s gone. “Stanford? Don’t leave me hangin’. High-six? Fine. I can make it on my own! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! I’ll make millions and you’ll _rue_ the day you turned your back on me!” 

He snatched up the duffel back and threw it into his car before sliding into the driver’s seat. He just had to keep hold of that anger, because if he thought about anything else, he might break. 

_You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do_   
_And it's breaking my heart in two_   
_Because I never want to see_ _you_ _sad, girl_   
_Don't be a bad girl_

“Hey, Sam! So, I was wondering if I could crash at your place tonight--” 

Dial tone. Hang up. Try again. 

“Gene? Remember that favor you owe me?” 

Dial tone. Asshole. Stan counted the number of dimes he had left. Who else? Carla? No. Absolutely not. Besides, her dad would probably pull a shotgun on him if he dared to step foot inside his house. 

“Crampelter, it’s Stanley Pines. You know how I took you to the hospital and lied to the cops about how you ‘accidentally’ shot yourself in the foot? Yeah, I just need a place to stay. What do you mean you can’t? You’re married now? Who the fuck married you? Is she blind and deaf? Wait, no, I didn’t--” 

Fuck. Who’s next? 

“So, Benny, it’s been a while since we’ve talked, but I could really use a place to stay for the night... I can? Thanks, you’re a real friend.” The only he one had apparently. Laughs in the cafeteria didn’t mean much to anyone, did it? Fuck, a whole lifetime with Ford didn’t mean shit. 

Benny was waiting for Stan on the sidewalk when he pulled up. “Cut the engine!” He hissed. “You’re going to wake my parents up!” Stan switched off the car and Benny gestured for Stan to follow him down a side alley beside the large, 19th-century brownstone his parents owned. “We’ve got to go up the fire escape. I’ll tell my parents in the morning. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?” 

“It’s not like I’m asking to stay forever,” Stan grumbled. “I’ll figure out what I’m going to do tomorrow. I just need a night, that’s all I’m asking of your folks.” 

“Pines, my parents would hose you like a stray cat if they saw you slinking around here. Stanford, sure, they’d let him in. But you? C’mon.” 

“What?” He growled as he climbed up after Benny. Benny turned and looked him up and down. At his clothes, the cuts and bruises and Band-Aids from fighting, the car. He didn’t have to say a damn thing. _Loser_. 

Stan crawled through the window and blinked at the spacious bedroom Benny apparently had all to himself. There was even a stereo cabinet. _Fancy_! Was this what a million dollars looked like? “Here,” Benny said and tossed him a couple of pillows and a blanket. “If you snore, I promise you I will throw you right back out the fire escape.” Benny then crawled into his own four-poster bed and shut off the light, leaving Stan standing there. Floor it was, then. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

The carpet was plush though. Much nicer than the one at home. Stan settled down and finally allowed his body to relax, the anger seeping out of him as the exhaustion took hold. And that was when his mind kicked into high gear and all he could think was _oh, fuck_ . _Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ What was he going to do? How was he supposed to get a million dollars? What was he supposed to do and _oh,_ _fuck._ _Oh, fuck_. 

He must have somehow fallen asleep, despite the internal freakout, because Benny was kicking him and there was a bookbag slung over his shoulder. “Mom says you can’t stay here.” He shrugged. “Sorry, Stanley.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” It’s not like he really expected it. 

“Hey, uh, can I get a ride to school?” 

“Uhh...” Between getting kicked out and everything, Stanley kind of forgot that school was still a thing. 

Benny gave him a weird look. “You are still going to show up, right? I mean, we’ve only got two months left. You can stick it out for two months, right?” 

“Yeah, of course, I’m not a complete idiot.” What was he going to do during those two months? Stan supposed he could keep his car parked in the students’ parking lot and sleep there. He’d have access to the schools’ showers and he'd have at least one meal a day, so long as he could find a couple of dimes to pay the cafeteria. Yeah... yeah, that might work. “Are your parents going to let me out the front door or do I have to take the servants’ entrance?” 

“Shut up, Pines.” 

Stanley wasn’t expecting the whispers when he walked into school. He glanced around, noticing the stares that followed him as he made his way down the hall. 

“I heard it was smashed to pieces.” 

“Are you serious? Why?” 

“C’mon, he’s always been jealous of him. I sit behind him in Bio and he’s always leaning over and copying Ford’s work.” 

Stan felt his neck prickle and he turned to look at whoever was talking shit about him. There was some red-headed girl giving him a cool look as she leaned over to whisper to her friend. Stan swore he’s never seen her in his life. Had she really sat behind him in Bio? And why did she care if he cheated off of Ford? Ford always let him. He never said anything about it. For a brief moment the anger came back and Stan latched onto it like a life raft, but then he caught sight of Ford up ahead of him, moving quickly to his first class, and the anger evaporated. 

He looked at everyone around him. There wasn’t a single person in his corner. 

Fuck it. 

_But if you want to leave, take good care_   
_Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there_   
_But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware_   
_Beware_   
_Ooh baby, baby, it's a wild world_   
_It's hard to get by just upon a smile_   
_Ooh baby, baby, it's a wild world_   
_And I'll always remember you like a child, girl_

Stanley had worn the best clothes he had, which, admittedly weren’t very nice. Pa hadn’t paid much attention when he was shoveling things into the duffel bag. He had gotten five shirts – two of which were actually Ford’s – an old pair of dress slacks that were a little too short in the leg, and a half-used bottle of toothpaste. Stan settled in a chair near the back of the conference room and noted with some relief that there were a couple of guys who looked worse than he did. 

A man in a short-sleeved button-down and a clip-on tie walked up in front of the group. “I am here to talk to you about an amazing opportunity!” He said. “I’m looking for self-motivated people to join my team of top-dollar salesmen. And believe me, these state-of-the-art vacuums will practically sell themselves! How our business works is, once you buy in to our product, sell it, pay us back the remaining costs, you will then keep the residual fees! Now, I know what you’re thinking: _but, Steve, how will I make money that way?_ And let me assure you, that I want you to make money, because I’m not making money unless you’re making money. And the best part is, you can be your own boss! If your client list grows too large, then why not recruit some of your friends? They’ll help you sell your product and give you part of their earnings to pay back what you borrowed from us! It’s literally a win-win situation!” 

Stanley might be a dumb seventeen-year-old kid who flunked Algebra II, but there was something weird about this whole thing. If they recruited more people, and the people they recruit recruited more people, and so on, who the fuck was making any money? And then it hit Stan like hammer. “Oh!” He uttered, which sounded deafening in the conference room. “This is a _scam_!” 

The guy with the clip-on stopped his spiel. “Did you have a question, Mr...?” 

Stan laughed. “Uh, Pinington. _Steve_... Pinington . And, uh, no, no question. I gotta , you know--” Stan jerked his thumb back towards the hotel lobby and quickly ducked out of his seat, grabbing a handful of complimentary doughnuts as he passed. As he exited the double doors, he saw a handcart and a pile of boxes with pictures of that piece of shit vacuum Clip-On Steve was pedaling across it. He glanced around the lobby. The receptionist was talking to someone at the front desk, there was a man reading a newspaper at the far end... Stan shoved his doughnut into his pocket and started to calmly stack the vacuums onto the cart. The receptionist glanced at him, but Stan was brazen in his actions. He kept on working, even humming a little as he continued to stack the boxes. He acted like he was _supposed_ to be there, loading up everything, and it worked. The girl at the counter turned back to her client and Stanley walked out of there with a whole lot of product to sell. He just needed to give the vacuums a new name and he was set. 


	19. Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves" by Cher (1971)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xHhWkz5aMc)
> 
> WARNING! This chapter contains sex obtained under dubious consent, sexual harassment, and attempted noncon.  
> Also, Frank "Big Black" Smith was a real person and the main leader of the Attica Prison Riot.

_I was born in the wagon of a_ _travelin_ _' show_   
_My mama used to dance for the money they'd throw_   
_Papa would do whatever he could_   
_Preach a little gospel, sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good_   
_Gypsies, tramps, and thieves_   
_We'd hear it from the people of the town_   
_They'd call us gypsies, tramps, and thieves_   
_But every night all the men would come around_   
_And lay their money down_

Stan scanned the classifieds, looking for certain buzzwords: “self-motivated leader”, “be your own boss”, “residual income.” All the hallmarks of a pyramid scheme. And that’s where Stanley would conduct his own little scheme. Pretend to be one of those shmucks with stars in his eyes, then rob them off all their product, slap a StanCo sticker on it, and sell it for whatever he could get before he was run out of whatever suburban paradise he found himself in. It wasn’t really criminal as far as Stanley was concerned. Stealing from thieves didn't count.

George sat across from him, building pyramids out of the packets of creamer. “So, what are we doing?” 

Stan grinned as he spotted one that he hadn’t robbed from before. “Got us a fish.” 

Stan threw some coins down on the table for the waitress. They hopped into George’s van, Stan in his suit and George in a gray jumpsuit, and headed toward the library. Quite a step down from the hotel conference room from Stan’s first encounter with a pyramid scheme, but beggars can’t be choosers and Stan robbed enough of them that he’s been left scrapping the bottom of the barrel. In front of the library was a pickup truck with a load of white cardboard boxes, ready to be given out to the rubes who really believed that “you gotta spend money to make money” bullshit the salesman inside was feeding them. They’d buy the products thinking they could sell it for a markup, not realizing it took skill to land a deal – especially when the deal was literal garbage – and even if they did manage to sell one, their recruiter would end up taking three quarters of the profit. 

Really, Stan was doing a public service. 

Stan got out of the van first and headed inside. In the back of the library, the recruiter was surrounded by white plastic chairs filled with middle-aged women who were hanging on to his every word. He had a little perfume bottle in his hand and he asked one of the women to hold out her arm. He sprayed it on her wrist and told her to smell it. She did and pulled a face. “It... it doesn’t smell very nice, John,” she admitted, meekly, as though she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Stan wanted to tell her, _Lady, he hasn’t got any feelings to hurt. Bet it smelled like ass._ Instead, Stan perused the mystery section. One good thing about it being in a library was that Stan didn’t actually have to attend the conference – and show his face – to get the information he needed. Stan grabbed a random book – _One Fearful Yellow Eye_ by John MacDonald – and started to flip through the pages, keeping an ear out for Clip-On John. 

“Perfume adheres to a person’s natural scent, so depending on your body chemistry, the perfume could smell as it is supposed to or... something else,” Clip-On John said in a way that made it clear that he thought it was her fault that it smelled bad. An answer for everything, eh, John? The lady blushed and tried to discretely smell herself. “Sunrise prides itself on its ingredients. The top notes are rose, lily of the valley, and vanilla. Here.” Clip-On John sprayed the perfume onto one of those white sticks of paper Stan had seen before in department stores. He passed it around and every single person there – including Miss Body Chemistry – spoke about how wonderful it smelled. No one wanted to be the first one to admit that it smelled like a chemical sewer. It was a game of the Emperor’s New Clothes. 

**In many** **ways** **life is less random than we think.** **In your past and mine, there have been times when we have, on some lonely trail, constructed a device aimed into our future. Perhaps nothing ever comes along to trigger it. We live through the safe years. But, for some people, something moves on the half-forgotten path, and something arches out of the past and explodes in the here and now. These are emotional intersections, when lives cross, diverge, then meet again**

_Yeech_. Philosophy. And here, in the murder mysteries, Stanley thought he’d be safe from all that mumbo jumbo. Stan put the book back on the shelf – that looked about right, was it right? No, the librarian was glaring at him now – and strode out of the building. He walked up to the goons standing by the pick-up. He could see George get out of the van, pull out a handcart from the back, and head towards him. “Excuse me, I just spoke to John,” Stan said. “Sunrise wants us to take some of your extra perfume to another conference across town. Seems they ran out.” 

The goons shrugged. “Yeah, no problem. You need help?” 

“Yeah, thanks, that’d be great. We just need about fifteen boxes I think.” 

“Sure, no problem.” 

They started stacking the boxes on top of the handcart. 

Then Clip-On John had to make his grand entrance, the bastard. 

“What’s going on here?” He demanded. 

One of the goons gave him a confused look. “We’re taking these across town, like the guy said.” 

“What guy?” 

Stan and George had already high-tailed it. Two of the boxes crashed to the ground as George yanked up the handcart and was running with it under his arm. He threw it into the back while Stan scrambled into the driver’s seat. He started it up while George jumped in, swinging the van doors closed on the sight of Clip-On John and his backup goons running after them and screaming obscenities. Stan swore and banged his fist against the console as he pulled out into the street. “Hey, stop it!” George protested. “You’re going to damage my van. Look, we’ll just find another one of these things--” 

“There aren’t a whole lot left we haven’t burned, not to mention all the shitty towns we’ve been driven out of for selling their shit!” 

George was quiet for a moment. “My cousin Mike is still looking for some guys. Big league stuff.” 

Big league stuff. "Big League Stuff" was more lucrative, and more dangerous. "Big League Stuff" meant there was no turning back. That was why Stan had turned him down the last time, but then he still had money in his pocket, product to sell, and a fresh town that he hadn’t been banned from yet. “Yeah, alright, let’s go talk to your Mike.” 

_Picked up a boy just south of Mobile_   
_Gave him a ride, filled him with a hot meal_   
_I was sixteen, he was twenty-one_   
_Rode with us to Memphis_   
_And papa_ _woulda_ _shot him if he knew what he'd done_   
_Gypsies, tramps, and thieves_   
_We'd hear it from the people of the town_   
_They'd call us gypsies, tramps, and thieves_   
_But every night all the men would come around_   
_And lay their money down_

“The bank has next to no security--” 

“Because there’s a police station just five minutes away!” Stan protested. 

Mike ignored him. “It’ll be easy pickings. At eleven, it will be mostly empty. Easier to control the workers. Trust me.” 

Stan didn’t trust him, but he went along with it anyway. It was decided that they would use George’s van as the getaway car; Stan’s maroon Diablo was too noticeable. Stan sat in the back while George pulled up to the bank. Mike stepped out of the passenger seat and as he went around to the back, Stan leaned forward to whisper, “You sure about this?” 

George gave him a shaky smile. “Yeah. Like Mike said, it’s foolproof.” He was gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were pale and bulging. 

“Yeah...” Stan mumbled as Mike threw open the back doors to let Stan out. The pistol in his front jacket felt heavy against his chest as he climbed out and followed Mike inside. 

It was a small bank, with two tellers and one banker in a cubicle. There was a teenage boy in a waiter’s uniform getting cash from an elderly teller that reminded Stan of Mrs. Carmichael. The other teller was a cute twenty-something year old redhead who was counting money. Stan doubted she would want to go out with him after this. There was a security guard by the door who was half-asleep. Or maybe full-asleep, it was kind of hard to tell. The banker was on a phone call that could be heard throughout the rest of the bank, “No, Shirley, I _thought_ you were going to bank the water bill. That’s what we agreed! I don’t have time, I get off of work at six--” 

Mike gave him a nod and walked over to the banker. Stan sucked in a shaky breath and went to stand in front of the redhead. She didn’t bother to look up from her work, just said, “This line is closed. Please go to the next line, Janet will help you in a minute.” 

“Oh, yeah, no problem, sorry.” And then like an idiot Stan went to stand in the other line behind the sixteen-year-old waiter. Stan wanted to slap himself. 

The kid collected his money and left, and Stan came up to the counter. “How can I help you today, sir?” Janet asked. 

Stan pulled out the gun. “So, uh, this is a robbery. I need Red to get on the floor and for you to give me everything out of the till.” 

Janet looked down at the gun. “God damn it.” She said it so coolly, but Stan could see her hands were shaking. “Marie, honey, get down on the floor.” 

Stan could see the security guard sitting up out of the corner of his eye. _Come on, Mike, hurry up_. The banker was still yelling at his old lady. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t wash your hair this morning! – Hey, I’m sorry, sir, I will be with you in just a minute, if you could please wait outside – Shirley, I’m at work—CALL THE COPS, SHIRLEY! CALL--” 

The gun sounded deafening. Marie screamed and Janet fell down on top of her, trying to shield her with her body. Stan barely had time to turn around before Mike was striding out of the cubicle and leveling his gun at the security guard. There was the roar of the blast, and not much was left of the guard’s face. It was the teeth that got to Stan. Broken pieces of tooth were scattered all over the black-and-white tile. Stanley’s knees grew wobbly. He hurried over to a potted Ficus tree and vomited into it. 

“We have to go,” Mike said. 

Stan’s head shot up. “No shit! What the fuck were you thinking!?” 

“He told his wife to call the cops.” 

“Yeah, it was already done, shooting him wasn’t going to change the past!” 

Mike peeked out of the window. “George is gone.” 

Stan’s heart stopped for a minute. “What?” 

“George left. Van’s gone.” Mike put his hand – the one not holding the gun – on his hip. “I’m gonna kill him the next time I see him.” 

Stan could hear sirens. Mike checked his gun, shrugged at Stan, and said, “I’m gonna try to hoof it.” He raced out of the bank just as a squad car pulled up. A policeman got of the passenger door and Mike fired off two shots as he ran, one hitting the guy square in the chest. His partner jumped out of the driver’s side and fired back and Stan could see Mike stumble, his feet tangling with each other as he tried to stay upright, before crashing face-first into the pavement. He didn’t get back up. 

Stan placed his gun on the counter and wiped at his mouth. He looked down at the two crying women on the floor and gave them a shrug. “Sorry about all this. Probably not how you thought your day was gonna go, huh? Yeah, me either.” He put his hands behind his head and waited for the cops. 

_I never had_ _schoolin_ _' but he taught me well_   
_With his smooth southern style_   
_Three months later I'm a gal in trouble_   
_And I haven't seen him for a while, uh-huh_   
_I haven't seen him for a while, uh-huh_

“Listen, I’m trying to help you,” Stan’s public defender tried to reason with him. 

“But I didn’t have anything to do with the killings,” Stan protested. “That wasn’t the plan. I’ll admit to attempting armed robbery, but not to being a murderer.” 

The lawyer sighed and rubbed his head. “You're a kid, and a dumb one at that, so let me explain something to you: your friend killed three people, one of whom was a cop. They want their pound of flesh and their going to get it. Your friend is dead, which just leaves you. Take the plea deal.” 

Stan just scowled up at him and folded his arms. 

The lawyer threw up his hands. “God help your soul.” 

Stanley Pines was convicted. Twenty-five to life in Attica. 

Stan looked up at the building as the bus pulled up to Attica. It looked like a medieval castle. The massive concrete walls seemed to extend past his field of vision; they just went on and on. The bus stopped in front of the gate. Stan and fifteen other prisoners were unloaded and marched through. They entered one room and were told to strip and stand with their legs apart and their hands on their head. Stanley kept his eyes straight ahead as he removed everything from his body — pants, shoes, socks, underwear — and, in the open air, the prisoners stood single file as cold hands clinically examined them for any contraband. Stan spooked at the first touch and the words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop them, “No dinner first?” 

The guard — whose hand was running through his hair as he examined his scalp — gave him a sharp look. “You gotta problem, kid?” 

“Nope.” One of these days, he was going to learn to keep his mouth shut. 

“That’s what I thought. Open your mouth. Lift your tongue, now stick your tongue out.” Stanley did as he was asked, looking up at the guard with his mouth hanging open and his tongue out. The guard huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, young thing like you? You’re gonna be looking like that a lot in here.” 

Stan's face flushed with anger and embarrassment and his mouth snapped shut. The guard has his hand on his cock and testicles. He lifted them, looked for anything might be taped under there, and moved on. He heard another guard bark out from somewhere behind him, “Pull back your foreskin.” At least Stan was circumcised. 

“Alright, everyone, time to squat and cough.” 

Stan was given a uniform and marched down to his cell. He was officially institutionalized. Dedulya was sent to a gulag, his mother to an asylum, and now here was Stanley, following in their footsteps. A chip off the old block, huh? The cells he passed looked like they were only meant to house one inmate, but most had at least two. Rickety metal bunk beds had somehow been squeezed inside and the toilets reeked of sewage. Shivers started running up and down his spine. Would he have a bunkmate? He knew all the prison jokes, of course — _everyone_ knew the jokes — and Stan had cracked a few himself, but actually being here? He sure as shit didn’t feel like laughing now. 

The guard stopped in front of his cell, opened it and pushed him inside. There was a man sitting on the top bunk. A scrawny Puerto Rican who couldn’t have been more than 5’6 and was probably queer even before being thrown into the slammer. Stan couldn’t help but release a shaky laugh. He had at least fifty pounds on the guy. 

His bunkmate eyed him warily. “I’ve already got a boyfriend, and he’s the baddest sonofabitch in here.” 

Stan held up his hands and gave him his perfect salesman smile. “Don’t worry, your virtue is safe with me.” 

_She was born in the wagon of a_ _travelin_ _' show_   
_Her mama had to dance for the money they'd throw_   
_Grandpa'd_ _do whatever he could_   
_Preach a little gospel, sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good_   
_Gypsies, tramps, and thieves_   
_We'd hear it from the people of the town_   
_They'd call us gypsies, tramps, and thieves_   
_But every night all the men would come around_   
_And lay their money down_

“Jack likes you,” Arturo told him as they lined up for their weekly shower. 

Stan winced. “I don’t think ‘like’ is the right word.” 

“Just thought you should know, I heard he and his friends were planning something in the showers.” 

Yeah, Stan had gotten that feeling. The way Jack looked at him made his skin crawl. 

“Don’t fight him,” Arturo warned. “I don’t want to see you dead.” And then, because that was too honest for the two of them, tacked on, “Who knows who I’d have to bunk with then?” 

Stan threw back a grin. “You’re the one who keeps complaining that I snore.” 

“Be quiet down there!” One of the guards barked and then they were moving, towards the shower room where they were stripped and herded inside. A low rumbling echoed against the tiles as the water worked its way through the pipes, and then there was the sting as the orange-tinted spray pounded into his bruises. Stan noticed that the other guys had given him a wide berth and the guards were looking the other way; they didn’t much care about what happened to cop-killers. _Not that I am one_ , Stan grumbled to himself. _Haven’t killed anyone at all_. 

Jack slid up beside him, his voice low and smooth and so nonchalant. “Hey, kid, how old are you? Hmm? You shy? You don't have to worry. I just want to get to know you. Did you ever get to make it with a woman before you got sent here? You popped your cherry yet?” Stan ignored him and kept scrubbing. “Bitch, I’m talking to you.” 

Stanley told himself that giving _in_ was not the same thing as giving _up_ and spun around to face Jack. Before Jack knew what was happening, Stan had a hand on his cock and was stroking him to full hardness. “Is this what you want?” Stan asked. Jack leaned against the tiled wall and moaned while Stan worked him over quickly. Get it over with, make it fast, before Jack decided he wanted something Stanley didn’t think he could give. Jack shuddered and then he was coming, right into Stan's hand. For a second Jack just stood there, breathing, but then one heavy hand landed on Stan’s neck, pulling his head down and Jack said, “Get on your knees.” 

Stan still had his hand wrapped around the guy’s dick. He wondered how much trouble he would be in if he ripped it off. 

Before Stanley could decide what to do, the lights flickered and then shut off completely, plunging the room into complete darkness. In seconds it was a madhouse. Stan punched Jack in the gut and took off. People were yelling, Stan could hear the guards screaming for order. Something hard landed across his back —a baton, one of the guard’s batons — knocking the wind out of him and sending him crashing to the floor, his face smashing against the wet tile. He bit into his lip and when he lifted his hand to touch it, the wetness was too thick to be just water. Somebody tripped over him. Stan crawled out of the crush of bodies, and dragged himself to his feet. He felt along the wall as it went from tile to concrete and took off running again. 

He burst through a pair of doors, out of the darkness and into one of the cellblocks. It was empty. From the window he could see the inmates pouring into D Yard, dragging the guards behind them. Stan turned around again, only to run right into Frank Smith, who everyone just called “Big Black.” For obvious reasons. 

“Kid, where the fuck are your clothes?” He demanded as he stared down at this bruised and bloody, naked nineteen-year-old. 

“Uhhh...” 

“Just... Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

_Gypsies, tramps, and thieves_   
_We'd hear it from the people of the town_   
_They'd call us gypsies, tramps, and thieves_   
_But every night all the men would come around_   
_And lay their money down_

Stan and Arturo watched from a corner in D Yard as Big Black tried to regain control of the situation. It was day four into the negotiations and the Commissioner had denied their demands. Demands that included things like “stop abusing us” and “toothbrushes and showers every day.” 

“That’s it!” One of the inmates screamed. He had a knife. He stormed over to the hostages. “Every day they don’t give in, I say we kill one of them!” 

Several others joined him. The Muslims took up a line of defense around the guards, to protect them from the growing mob. “Don’t be stupid!” One of them yelled. 

“Arturo.” Stan turned to look at his friend. “We are fucked.” 

That was when the helicopter appeared. 

Someone said, “It’s the governor!” For days they had waited for the governor’s response to the situation. Looked like he had finally appeared. Stan watched as several things fell out from the helicopter. They were small and silver, glinting in the morning sun as they plummeted to the ground. The moment they hit, smoke erupted from them, filling the yard. 

Stan was choking. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. There was a roaring cannonade as gunfire erupted through the air. People were screaming, and then people _were not_ screaming. He felt someone grab his shirt and pull him to the ground. He latched on to whoever it was and then crawled. He heard something whizz next to his ear and his first thought was that it was a very large and very fast mosquito, before he realized it was fucking bullet and _crawled faster_. He broke through the tear gas, Arturo coughing beside him, and looked up to see a cop in riot gear with a shotgun aimed at his head. _Fuck it_ had very quickly become Stanley’s motto since getting kicked out, and with that he leapt up to his knees to headbutt him in his crotch. The guy went down and Stanley was up and running, pulling Arturo behind him every step of the way as they clawed through the chaos. 

Stanley spotted a blue CBS van and made a desperate run for it. He threw open the door and dove inside, Arturo scrambling up behind him and flinging the door closed. A geeky-looking photographer stared at them from the driver’s seat, his eyes looking unnaturally large behind his thick coke-bottle glasses. Stan tried to summon his salesman smile, the one that had somehow managed to sell shitty appliances to housewives, but the only thing that came out was a small, choked, “I don’t want to die.” 

The little geek was spurred into action and Stan thought that he might jump out and get the police, but instead he started up the van, turned around, and drove away as the police continued to fire into the yard. 


	20. Take a Walk on the Wild Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Take a Walk on the Wild Side" by Lou Reed (1972)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oG6fayQBm9w)

_Holly came from Miami, F.L.A._   
_Hitch-hiked her way across the U.S.A._   
_Plucked her eyebrows on the way_   
_Shaved her legs and then he was a she_   
_She says, "Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side"_   
_Said, "Hey honey, take a walk on the wild side"_

West Coast Tech had the third largest library in the United States. West Coast Tech was well-known for its serious-minded student body. West Coast Tech was a good school. 

Backupsmore had none of those things and it was not, by any definition of the word, a good school. 

The library was small and cold and moldy; what money that should have gone into updating the collection had instead been funneled into getting the sub-par football team new uniforms. Fiddleford was sitting across from him in his thick down jacket, his head resting in his hands as he read over his art history textbook. “I’m an engineering major,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “Why am I taking this class?” 

Ford ran through the gamut of things he could say to that, picking up each one and discarding them. Fiddleford was the only friend he had made at this stupid school and he didn’t want to mess it up by saying the wrong thing. He could be factual (which was not helpful), witty (which he didn’t think he was actually capable of), or he could just say nothing. It’s not as if Fiddleford was actually direction his question at him, right? He went with factual. “You were the one who wanted only morning classes.” 

“Early bird catches the worm.” 

“Is that one of your weird Southern sayings?” 

Fiddleford shot him a confused, but delighted smile, the one that always made Ford feel like he was one of Jane Goodall’s chimpanzees, studied and indulged at the same time. He was half-waiting for Fiddleford to give him a banana. “No, it’s just a saying. In general. Pretty common actually. Even you yankees say it.” 

“Well, I’ve never heard of it,” Ford pointed out. 

Fiddleford’s grin grew larger. “I ain’t convinced that this ‘Peterson, New Jersey’ is actually _on_ this planet, much less in the US.” His eyes slid over to look at something past Ford’s shoulder. He leaned forward and whispered. “The girl in the red headband is looking at you.” 

Ford twisted around to look and saw Meredith – they shared a class with Professor Bernstein, she sat two desks back and to the left of him – coming up behind him with a stack of books in her arms. She waved and said, “Wow, do you live here? Sorry,” she laughed awkwardly. “That sounded rude. I just meant, I see you here a lot. Not that I can say anything, I’ve basically set up a sleeping bag in the lab. There is only _one_ Bunsen burner and you have to fight off the other nerds with a knife if you want to use it. Anyway! There’s a party at Colman House tomorrow night. Are you going? I know you probably have a ton of work to do, but I’d really like for you to be there. You’ll come, right? Think about it! Gotta go, bye!” 

She said all of this very fast and before Ford could say even one word, Meredith had fled the library. She then came back, her face red, and walked up to the disapproving librarian in order to properly check out her books, before running away again. 

It was all very strange. 

When Ford turned back around, Fiddleford’s smile had turned downright devious. “So...” he said. 

“So... what?” 

“Are ya gonna go out with her or not?” Fiddleford rolled his eyes. 

Ford scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. She doesn’t like me like that. I’ve shared my notes with her a couple of times, she probably just thinks she’s repaying the favor.” 

The smile finally vanished. “You should think about making friends with the psych majors,” Fiddleford said. “Considering the fact you’ve got both an inferiority _and_ a superiority complex going on at the same time. They’d crown you their king.” 

“What are you going on about?” 

“That girl just asked you out on a date.” 

Ford looked behind him again, but of course she was long gone. “No she didn't... Did she?” 

“She was looking at you like you were half-priced ham on the bone.” 

“I know you just made that one up, no one says that.” Ford leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What am I supposed to do with this information?” This wasn’t something Ford ever had to deal with before. 

Fiddleford just shrugged. “Nothing, if’n you don’t want to.” 

_Nothing_ sounded like too easy an answer. 

_Candy came from out on the island_   
_In the backroom, she was everybody's darlin'_   
_But she never lost her head_   
_Even when she was_ _givin_ _' head_   
_She says, "Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side"_   
_Said, "Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side"_

Ford spotted Meredith through the pack of bodies clustered together. She waved him over and Ford followed her command, even though his feet felt like they were made of cement. What was he supposed to say to her? He didn’t have any practice. Stanley had handled that—he made the introductions, he broke the ice, he either took the time to ingratiate himself with those around him or offended everyone within a mile radius, depending on his mood. Stanley _liked_ having all the attention on himself. 

For a moment, Ford felt that familiar rush of anger, but then Meredith was standing in front of him and everything Ford was feeling was smothered in icy fear. “Ah, yes, hello!” _Yes_ ? Why did he say _yes_? She hadn’t asked a question! 

But Meredith just smiled and said, “I’m so glad you could make it!” 

Ford nodded. “Yes.” Fucking _yes_ again!? Why couldn’t he think of anything else to say? He thought back to the things he heard Stan say to Carla. It had obviously worked for him, they were probably off making fat, happy babies somewhere. Ford could try using some of Stan's lines on Meredith, but couldn’t bring himself to actually say them out loud. They were too embarrassing. 

“Have you thought about your project yet for Bernstein’s class?” Meredith asked. 

Something slotted into place. Ford could do this. He could answer this. “I’m actually re-working an old project of mine that I did in high school. A perpetual motion machine. What about you?” 

Meredith gave an embarrassed laugh. “I’ve got a lot of different ideas, no clue how to execute any of them.” 

“We should get together sometime and go over your notes, then. It’s easier when you have someone with you as a sounding board. You’re a chemistry major, right? Do you have any plans after we graduate?” 

“Uh, mad scientist? Does that count?” Meredith groaned. “I don’t know! Why does everyone ask that question?” 

Ford laughed. “To see the fear in your eyes.” 

Meredith leaned forward. “Oh, the fear is definitely there.” 

“There’s always a career in supervillainy.” 

“You laugh, but I am completely serious about the mad scientist thing. When I was kid, I used to pretend I was a lava goddess and I would sacrifice my barbies to myself. This--” Meredith gestured to all of her. “Is just pure ego. Scratch the surface and you’ll find more surface.” 

Ford couldn’t help himself from laughing. He didn’t realize how easy talking could be. Meredith _made_ it easy. 

Meredith preened under Ford’s attention. “Hey,” she said suddenly. “Do you want to get out of here? We could go back to my place. I share an apartment, so we don’t have to worry about any RAs chasing you out.” 

Despite what Fiddleford thought, Ford wasn’t quite as socially oblivious as to not know what that meant. He thought back to that old list he had come up with, the hallmarks of a normal life for normal people. Friends, Girlfriend, Sex, Wife, Family. Only ‘Friends’ was checked off, and even then, Ford had fudged the rules a little because Fiddleford was just one friend and ‘Friends’ was clearly plural. Most people managed to get more than one person to like them, but Ford would take what he could get. Even if it didn’t, here was a girl giving him the chance to make another check, possibly two if she decided she wanted to stick around, and Ford _was terrified_. 

(Could ‘Girlfriend’ count towards ‘Friends’ as well? All the research he’d done [movies he’d watched] said it didn’t work that way.) 

But a Pines didn’t back down and Ford was determined force himself into a normal life. He wanted to be happy, and these were the things he needed to get to become happy. “Okay,” he said and Meredith grabbed his hand. 

Ford tensed, waiting for her to let go in disgust when she realized there were one too many pinkies. But all she did was thread her fingers with his and pull him along. 

_And the colored girls go_   
_Do-do-do, do-do, do-do-do_   
_Do, do-do, do-do, do-do-do_   
_Do, do-do, do-do, do-do-do_

Kissing wasn’t very interesting. They’re mouths were pushed up against each other, her tongue roved around inside of her mouth, sometimes their teeth met. It wasn’t really bad per se, but it definitely didn’t seem great enough to wake up sleeping princesses. Mostly, it just kind of felt like a chore and Ford was left waiting for whatever happened next. 

Meredith put her hand on him and stroked him through his trousers, and that was definitely something. He could feel himself respond. His anxiety was mounting. 

She pulled at the hem of her shirt, tugging it off of her. She unhooked her bra and it landed on the floor next to her shirt. She was a pretty girl; blonde hair, a bit pudgy, with a round face and large eyes. _Pretty_ , she was _pretty_. He thought she was pretty. He was attracted to her. Why wasn’t that making it easier? He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Meredith gave him a crooked smile and whispered against his mouth, “It’s okay.” 

His shirt was pulled off, then their trousers, their underwear, socks, and then they were under the covers, Meredith on top. Ford gasped when she grabbed hold of him and guided him inside. Wet and warm and pleasurable, but pleasurable in the way that a lot of things are pleasurable. Less thrilling than a roller coaster ride, more raw sensation than that first bite of chocolate cake. All he could think of was, _this is what all those songs were talking about?_

Because it was nice, and that was really the only word Ford could think of to describe it. Nice. 

It _was_ his first time. Maybe he was doing it wrong? Maybe it’s because he wasn't not in love with her. Maybe if he kept working at it, he’d get the firecrackers he was owed. 

Ford held onto her hips and started to work into her, harder, faster, searching for something he didn’t have a name for. Meredith braced her hands against his chest and pushed back; she seemed to have found it, whatever it was, judging by the sounds she was making. Then his vision whitened as raw, visceral _pleasure_ slammed into his gut. 

It was over. 

Meredith curled around him, and Ford focused on the stickiness of her skin, the cooling sweat between them. In his head, his ‘Normal People’ list crumbled into ash. He was bowled over with the sense of _not right_. He just had sex for the first time, he shouldn’t be feeling relief that it was over! He should be euphoric! He should feel pride! He should want to do it again! 

Instead, Ford got nothing more out of this than he would have if he had just masturbated for five minutes. Less so, because he could work while masturbating. 

There was something wrong with him. More than just his fingers. Ford wondered if this was nature’s way of preventing him from passing down his defective genes. 

In the morning, Meredith asked if he would call her. Ford never wanted to be like his mother. He had watched her infect Stanley with her delusions, up until the day his twin had sabotaged everything Ford had worked for and lied to his face about it. At that moment, however, Ford could see why they lied so much. The truth was cruel, and hard. So, Ford lied and hated himself for it after. “Of course, I will.” 

_Little Joe never once gave it away_   
_Everybody had to pay and pay_   
_A hustle here and a hustle there_   
_New York City is the place where they said_   
_"Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side"_   
_I said, "Hey Joe, take a walk on the wild side"_

Stan followed Arturo up the four flights of stairs to a shitty apartment in one of New York’s shittier neighborhoods. 

He had no money, no car, and he was on the run. There weren’t too many places for Stan to go, so when Arturo had suggested looking up an old boyfriend, Stan had agreed. At least, until he could hunt down George and find out where the Diablo had ended up. Stan swore, if that little shithead had gotten it towed or something, he was going to earn that murder rap, _properly_ this time. 

Arturo knocked on the door and a voice from the other side barked out, “Who is it?” 

Arturo leaned his head against the door. “It’s me, Artie. Let me in, okay?” 

The door swung open and a tall, lanky guy was braced against the doorframe. He was skinny, but corded with muscle. He would put up a hell of a fight for Stan, if it came down to that. “What do you want?” He demanded. 

Arturo smiled up at him. “I missed you, Frank. Lockup was sooo lonely.” 

The guy – Frank – rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. Get in here. Who’s your friend?” 

“Stan. He needs a place to crash for a week or two. That alright, Frank?” 

Stan followed Arturo into the apartment. What a dump. Move over, Pines Pawns, there’s a new shithole in town. 

“So, just a friend, huh?” Frank looked him over. 

“We used to paint each other's nails and gossip about boys in the prison yard,” Stan said. The dark look Arturo shot him made it plain that his jokes were _not_ appreciated at that moment. 

“Just wondering. Prison can do things to a man--” 

Stan held up his hands. “I’m not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, or nothin’.” Pa’s thoughts on the subject notwithstanding. “I mean, hey, Tchaikovsky was queer too!” 

Arturo looked at him. “Didn’t you drop out of high school? Where are you pulling this Tchaikovsky shit from?” 

“So, what, because I’m dropout, I can’t know things?” Stan turned back to Frank and flashed him his best salesman smile. “Anyway, sorry to disappoint, I know I’m quite the looker.” 

Frank ran his eyes over him again and this time Stan felt a shiver go up his spine. This wasn’t like before, where it felt like Frank was sizing him up. This was speculative. “Yeah, real shame,” Frank said. “You good with the couch? That’s all I got.” 

“Yeah, that’s fine, where’ll Arturo bunk though?” From what he could see the apartment only had two rooms and just one bed. “I mean, you’re not still together, are you?” 

“Oh, Artie knows he’s got me wrapped around his finger.” Stan didn’t like the way Frank smiled. “Make yourself at home, I gotta talk to Artie about a job.” 

A job, huh? Arturo had never told him what he’d done to get sent to Attica, but it was a maximum-security prison so it probably wasn’t a bunch of unpaid parking tickets. So long as it wasn’t a bank robbery Frank wanted to discuss, Stan didn’t see how it was any of his business. Stan settled onto the couch, ready for some much-needed sleep while Frank and Arturo went into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. 

He woke up two hours later with his mouth full of cotton and the sound of moaning coming from the bedroom. Stan rolled his eyes. Seriously? Already? Come on, they _had_ to know how paper-thin these walls were. Stan was pretty heavy sleeper, but _no one_ could sleep through this. 

“Have a good nap?” 

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin. Frank was behind him in the little kitchenette, making a sandwich. “Uhhh...” Stan glanced back at the bedroom door. Yeah, there was a lot of moaning, grunting, and the sound of skin against skin going on in there. Frank just wasn’t a part of it, and Arturo was nowhere to be seen which probably meant he _was_. What the fuck was going on here? 

Frank came around the kitchen, a sandwich in each hand. He offered one to Stan. “Hungry?” He asked, as he took a bite out of his own sandwich. 

Stan took it and tried to figure out a way to ask if he and Arturo were swingers or something. 

Frank sat down beside him. “You really are handsome. Gotta big nose, but that just adds to your charm. Gives your face personality.” 

Stan took a bite out of his sandwich. “Uh huh, still not queer.” The moaning was _really_ distracting. 

“So? I know lots of straight guys in my line of work who’ll suck cock for the right about of money.” 

Stan gave him a sharp look. “What exactly is your ‘line of work’?” 

The moaning stopped. Then a quiet murmur, the rustling of clothes, and the door was opened. A strange man walked out of the room, gave Frank a nod, and left. He looked between the closed door, Frank, and where Arturo was tugging his shirt back through the bedroom door. Stanley felt his face flush, first with embarrassment and then with rage. He shot up from the couch and went into the bedroom where Arturo had just finished zipping up his pants. “We’re leaving.” Stan made sure to emphasize the _we_. 

Arturo looked up at him, startled by this sudden announcement. “What?” 

Stanley pointed to Frank. “He is not your boyfriend, he’s your pimp.” 

Arturo looked back down, adjusting his clothes that didn’t need adjusting. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know shit.” 

“So, then, tell me Frank didn’t arrange for you to have sex with some random guy for money _while I slept on the sofa five feet_ _away_!” 

Arturo was on his feet. “If it bothers you then get out! I don’t owe you nothing, you don’t owe me nothing. Don’t go sticking your nose into things that aren’t none of your business!” 

The cold dismissal managed to cut through Stanley, because damn it all he thought they were friends. “Fine! Do what you want!” Stan pushed past Frank and stormed out of the apartment. 

_Sugar Plum Fairy came and hit the streets_   
_Lookin_ _' for soul food and a place to eat_   
_Went to the Apollo_   
_You should have seen him go, go, go_   
_They said, "Hey Sugar, take a walk on the wild side"_   
_I said, "Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side"_   
_Alright, huh_

Stan wandered up and down the city streets, the autumn air nipping at his clothes as he went. Garbage crunched underneath his shoes and all he could think of was, _this is the city Pa had always dreamed of making his fortune in?_ And Ford had thought their sailboat was a pipe dream. 

Stan had no idea where he could go. He didn’t have any identification on him, not that it would a fugitive any good. He passed one or two guys sleeping in the doorways of shops and on bus stop benches and balked at the thought. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He’d get robbed and his throat cut open. 

So, Stanley walked. 

He crisscrossed up and down streets, roving over every inch of the neighborhood. He kept his eyes open and his mouth shut. He glared at anyone who came close. He avoided the streets that had broken lamps. Who knew what was hiding in those black patches of night? He walked until his feet ached, until his feet _stopped_ aching and felt like two slabs of swollen meat at the end of his legs. 

He let out a breath when saw the sun peek over the edge of the horizon. 

By the time seven o’clock rolled around, Stan had managed to make it to a diner. There was a payphone in the parking lot. Stanley fished out a couple of dimes and stuffed them in. With any luck, Pa would already be down in the shop. 

“Madame Esmeralda has been awaiting your call--” 

“Ma?” Stan croaked out. 

There was a pause. “Stanley? Stanley, honey, is that you? Are you okay? Where are you? I haven’t heard from you in a year! A year, Stanley!” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry...” Stan scrambled to find the words he wanted to say. There was a gaping _want_ in his chest, to hear her stories as she cooked breakfast, to joke with Ford, to curl up on the bottom bunk in his childhood bedroom and go to sleep and not have to wake up for years and years. “Things got really busy. The business has really been taking off.” 

“... That’s wonderful, honey. Oh, I’ve got so much to tell you...” 

Caryn and Stanley talked for as long as they could, and they told each other their best and most beautiful lies. 

Stan made his way back up the four flights of stairs to Frank’s apartment. Frank didn’t even look surprised when he opened the door. “Tough out there, ain’t it, kid?” 

Stan shoved his hands into his pockets. “I won’t cause any trouble.” 

“If you’re gonna stay you’ll have to pay rent. You need help finding a job.” 

“I’m not walking the streets,” Stan snapped. 

“Did I say anything about that? You could go legitimate. I could get you a job as a dishwasher, or a scab. The city needs garbagemen with the strike.” Frank gave him a mocking look. “What? Not glamorous enough for you? I’ve got a friend who makes blue movies. Now, don’t look at me like that. He’s a real artistic type. Thinks he’s gonna be the next Radley Metzger. It pays $100 per scene. What do you say?” 

A $100 was a $100. 

_Jackie is just_ _speedin_ _' away_   
_Thought she was James Dean for a day_   
_Then I guess she had to crash_   
_Valium would have helped that bash_   
_She said, "Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side"_   
_I said, "Hey honey, take a walk on the wild side"_

Stan’s teenage masturbatory fantasies were nothing like the real thing. 

His idea of orgies usually involved a bunch of girls worshipping him like a god, usually on a waterbed. Never imagined a dingy basement, his skin prickling underneath the hot theatre lights, or the stupid flower crown the director made him wear. He was plowing into this one chick while she was eating another girl. Stan was just a cog in the great big fuck machine. 

The director is making wild gestures like he’s conducting an opera and someone’s elbow is digging into Stan’s back. He doesn't get any satisfaction out of coming, just relief. 

Bob hands him a twenty dollar bill and tells him he did a good job and that he’ll give him a call when he needs him again. 

Stan stares at the money in his hand. He’s cheap, but not _that_ cheap. “Twenty damn dollars!?” Stan demands. “That’s all you’re going to pay me!? 

Bob snorts. “Come on, this is a porno. I could go out onto the streets and find any good-looking guy with a dick willing to do this for free.” 

“I was told you paid $100 per scene.” 

Bob laughs. “Yeah, the _girls._ When you start taking dick up the ass, then I’ll pay you $100.” 

Stan thinks quickly for a moment. “You do those kinds of movies?” 

“Queer movies? Yeah, they sell well if you know the right market.” Bob looks over him speculatively. “Shooting will start on one this weekend, if you’re interested.” 

“I’m interested.” Stanley’s not nervous. He’s _not_. 

“You’ve done it before?” 

“Come on, I’ve been to prison.” That statement in and of itself is not a lie, but telling him about handjobs in the shower room isn’t going to close the deal. Stan needs Bob to think he can handle it. And he _can_. 

Bob laughs. “Yeah, alright. I’ll see you here at 9:00 on Saturday.” 

Stan goes back to Frank’s apartment after he’s cleaned up. He peeks his head in, and Arturo is on the couch, watching TV. He doesn’t see Frank or any of his friends. “You gonna come in or you just going to hang around my front door all day?” Arturo demands without looking at him. Still mad then. 

Stan sighs and closes the door behind him, dropping down onto the couch beside Arturo. “How was the job?” He asked. Stanley snatched at the offered bit of conversation. 

“They gave us sandwiches.” 

Arturo laughed, probably because it was a dumb thing to say, but also they were pretty good sandwiches. “Classy.” 

“Right? It would have almost been legitimate if it wasn’t in some guy’s weird sex dungeon.” Stan cracked a smile and pulled at a bit of loose thread coming out of the couch. “I got offered another part.” 

“Yeah?” 

“A queer movie. I, uh, might have implied I had more experience than I did.” Stan glanced at Arturo, keeping the shaky smile plastered on his face. 

Arturo was silent for a moment. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” 

“Uhh...” Stan didn’t know it was possible to blush this hard and not pass out. “I was kinda hoping... you could teach me?” 

Stan had expected scorn, he had expected his earlier words thrown back into his face, he even expected pity because Arturo was a nice guy underneath all the prickly bits. Instead, he just looked kind of sad and disappointed. “You gonna be on top or on bottom?” He asked. Business-like. Perfunctory, as Ford would say. 

“Bottom,” Stan admitted. “It pays more. A hundred bucks.” 

Arturo jerked his head back to the bedroom. “Come on back to the bedroom then.” 

They stripped down quickly, like they had done during a strip search in prison. It wasn’t in the least bit sexy and Stan was wondering if he’d be able to get it up if he kept thinking about prison when Arturo said, “Lie down. Knees up.” 

“Squat and cough,” Stan mumbled and Arturo barked out a laugh. 

His face suddenly above his. “You’re gonna be just fine,” he said. “You want a kiss?” 

Stan nodded. He really did. 

Arturo’s face was small, like Carla’s, but the stubble that raked against his cheeks broke any illusion and, ow, it was kinda irritating, no wonder Carla had always complained. The kiss grew harder, more desperate, and Stan sort of fell into it. Let it carry him off. 

The first finger felt weird. Not painful exactly, but weird. The second finger... that’s when Stan started to have second thoughts. Another finger was added and Stan grasped Arturo’s head, keeping his lips against his while he worked his way in. Arturo gave his wrist a squeeze and his other hand left him, resting lightly on his thigh as he nudged him in the right position. 

The pain bloomed and Arturo ran his fingernails along the inside of Stan’s groin. He took hold of him and started stroking, trying to distract him from the pain. Which... which wasn’t that bad. It hurt a lot less than the time Pa had beat the shit out of him. Stan didn’t know what sign Arturo was waiting for, but he must have seen it because he started moving in a gentle, inching rhythm. 

Something quick and sharp and electric jolted through Stan. There was still a sting when Arturo pushed in, but then—There! That sharp electricity. Arturo started to move faster and he was hitting that spot more and more so that every time the spark faded it came surging back. Stan reached up and grabbed at his hair, his body shaking as he came. 

Arturo pulled out and tied off the condom. He settled down next to Stan. 

Stan tried to crack a smile. “Eh, it was alright, I guess.” 

Arturo punched him in the arm. 

_And the colored girls say_   
_Do, do-do, do-do, do-do-do_   
_Do, do-do, do-do, do-do-do_   
_Do, do-do, do-do, do-do-do_

Stan and Arturo pulled up to George’s house in Frank’s beat up Pontiac. The Stanmobile was sitting in front the house on cement blocks and there was a large dent on the driver’s side door. Stanley was going to murder the little shithead. “You know, you don’t have to come with me, it’s my car and it was my dumb ass that tried to rob that bank,” He asked. 

Arturo picked up the baseball bat. “Did I ever tell you why I went to prison?” 

Stan shut off the engine and got out. “No.” 

Arturo slung the bat over his shoulder and jumped out. “Hm. Guess.” 

“You stabbed a mall santa?” Stan asked and rang the doorbell. 

“Ha! No, but I’ll add that to my bucket list.” 

George – the weaselly, little shithead – opened the door to Stan’s grinning face. “Hi, George.”


	21. Time in a Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce (1973)](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=NzLS5hUMdQo)

_If I could save time in a bottle_   
_The first thing that I'd like to do_   
_Is to save every day_   
_'Til eternity passes away_   
_Just to spend them with you_

Puberty had hit Stan like a truck. While he had always been a bit pudgier than Ford when they were kids, he had also been the shorter one, the smaller one. But then he had _grown_. Pa said he had a fighter's physique. Arturo said he was built like a brick shithouse.

He knew he had to leave when he looked into the mirror one day and saw just how thin he had become. _Concave_. That was the only word he could think of as he stared at his sunken, yellow cheeks and the curve of his spine, like he no longer had the strength to support the broad shoulders he had been so proud of. If he kept living the way he was, he would be six feet under before the year was out. He needed to make a change.

Which is why he had shelled out $50 that he really couldn't afford to lose for the privilege of sitting in a too short desk at Jefferson Junior High.

Stan tapped his pencil and looked at the two other people in the room. There was a pregnant sixteen-year old kid on his right. She was blowing through the questions, furiously scribbling down each answer and flicking the paper back with a satisfied 'hmph!' Up ahead of him was a Vietnam veteran. He looked just as lost as Stan did. He glanced back and Stan offered an encouraging smile. The vet smiled back and returned to his test. Stan sighed and looked at the equation in front of him. _16 - 2z = 5z ×14._

Stan used to be good at math. Not Ford-good, but he'd been a solid B student in all of his math classes, even geometry though he had just barely squeaked past a C. Now it was like he was looking at a foreign language. He couldn't have forgotten that much, could he?

The ticking of the clock sounded loud in his ears. He was an idiot. He couldn't tough it out the last two months of high school, what made him think he could pass the GED? He hadn't even got to the English section yet. Fuck, he just wasted $50 on a pipe dream. Idiot.

Stan stood up and handed in his test. The proctor looked up, startled. "You still have some time left if you need it."

Stan shrugged. "Eh, I don't think it'll help."

"We offer adult night classes, maybe after a couple of months--"

"I work nights," Stan interrupted. "Thanks though."

He left the school and headed up to Frank's apartment. He always breathed a sigh of relief when he found Frank gone. Arturo was on the couch, eating a bowl of Kraft macaroni and cheese. There was still neon orange powder covering his fingertips. He looked up when Stan came in, excitement plain on his face. "So? How'd it go?"

"I got this far without a GED--"

"Damn it, Stan." Arturo sat the bowl down. "Well, what are you gonna do? Are you gonna go back to--"

" _No._ " Stan cut off that line of thought. "I'm leaving. I don't care where, but I've got to get out of New York. I just... We make a good team, right? If you want--"

Now it was Arturo who stopped him. "I like it here." He couldn't even look Stan in the eyes when he said it.

Being on the other side of leaving didn't hurt any less. "Okay. I'll drop you a line when I get settled somewhere. Maybe you could come visit?"

He smiled. "Sure, Stan. I'd like that."

_If I could make days last forever_   
_If words could make wishes come true_   
_I'd save every day as a treasure and then_   
_Again, I'm would spend them with you_

Shermie had his toys out in the living room, sitting in a semi-circle around him. Armless Barbie was against Batman in a death match. The other toys booed-- it was a one-sided fight! Barbie didn't have any arms! How could she possibly win? Batman flew over to Barbie, but Barbie spun around in a double-kick. Her long legs knocking Batman to the floor.

Nurse Julia ran over to Batman. "He's dead!" She cried in despair. "You killed him! Now you have to leave!"

Armless Barbie trudged sadly across Pa's chair, down the sofa and over to the table where Ma sat painting her nails. Ma smiled at him. "Where's Barbie gonna go?"

"To the desert!" Shermie said.

"What's in the desert?"

"Big snakes!"

The telephone rang and Ma scrambled to answer it without smudging her nails. "Madame Esmeralda-- Stanley, honey, it's good to hear from you!"

Ma mouthed 'it's your brother.' Shermie tried to lean forward to listen in, but Ma pushed him away with a shake of her head. 'Grown up stuff,' her lips silently spelled out.

Shermie sat down and pouted.

"Oh, honey, I would love that, but where will you stay? You know your father won't let you near the shop.... How long? Just a week or two? Okay, call me the moment you arrive, got it?"

Ma hung up the phone and on her face was a wide, brilliant smile. She leaned forward. "Can you keep a secret from Pa?"

_But there never seems to be enough time_   
_To do the things you want to do_   
_Once you find them_   
_I've looked around enough to know_   
_That you're the one I want to go_   
_Through time with_

Shermie clutched his mother's arm as she led him into the diner. He sometimes talked to Stanford on the telephone when he called from college. Stanford was nice, but Shermie didn't think he was as smart as everyone said he was. He didn't even know who Scooby-Doo was!

He had never talked to Stanley though. He wasn't even allowed to say his name when Pa was around.

"Look, Shermie, there he is. Don't you want to say hi?"

Shermie looked around, trying to figure out which one of the customers was Stanley. Stanley was Stanford's twin, right? He should look exactly like him! Except Shermie couldn't really remember what Stanford looked like either. He never came from home from school, not even during the summer!

Then a man came up to him. "Hey, Shermie. Look how big you've gotten."

Shermie shrank back. He kinda looked like Pa.

"Aw, hey, don't be shy. Who's that you got there?"

Shermie held up Armless Barbie but didn't answer.

He thought Stanley would make a comment about her missing arms. That's what grown ups always said. "You should throw her away! She doesn't have any arms!" Or "But, Sherman, Barbie is a _girl's_ toy and you're a little boy!"

But Stanley said, "Why is she naked?"

"Pa didn't like me putting dresses on her!" Shermie explained.

Stanley laughed and looked at Ma. "Because letting Shermie walk around with a naked Barbie is so much better, just another example of Pa's flawless logic."

Shermie didn't quite understand all that, but then Stanley looked back down at him and asked, "Does Barbie like pancakes?"

"Barbie doesn't eat, she's plastic," Shermie explained. Geez, both of his brothers were dumb. "But _I_ only eat pancakes if they've got whipped cream on 'em. And strawberries!"

Ma ruffled his hair. "I think I can manage whipped cream and strawberries."

_If I had a box just for wishes_   
_And dreams that had never cone true_   
_The box would be empty_   
_Except for the memory_   
_Of how they were answered by you_

Armless Barbie trudged through the sandy desert. She had no hope of surviving if a big snake came and tried to eat her. If a big snake tried to eat her. _If a big snake tried to eat her_.

Shermie huffed and stomped his foot in the wet sand, glancing over at the big snake (but was also secretly his brother Stanley). Stanley-Snake was talking with Ma. "I couldn't even pass the GED, Ma." He sounded upset about something.

"But, honey, you've got so much personality!"

"Personality don't mean much, Ma."

"Hey!" Shermie called out. "You're supposed to be attacking Barbie!" Ma needed to learn how to share Stanley.

Stanley grinned at him. "Nah, I don't want to attack Barbie. I'd rather attack... Shermie!"

Before he could get away, Stanley had grabbed him by the waist and swung him around. Shermie wasn't going down without a fight. He started poking into Stanley's ribs, trying to find his ticklish spot (made much harder by the fact that Stanley insisted on wearing a shirt, even though they were at the beach, the weirdo). Stanley seemed to know what he was trying to do because his grin only got wider. "Sorry, Charlie, but I'm not ticklish."

"I'm Shermie." Then he was upset down as Stanley dangled him from his ankles before letting him softly back down onto the sand. Shermie wheezed with laughter and flopped over, trying to find his feet again.

When he finally got back up, Stanley's smile was gone and he was looking out across the sea. "Stanley?"

"Hey." The smile was back, but it wasn't as wide. Every time it left it came back smaller and smaller. "You wanna see the Stan-O-War?"

"Yes!" Shermie jumped. "What's the Stan-O-War?"

"It's an old boat me and Ford used to work on. Come on, kiddo." Stanley picked him up and placed him on his shoulders and they were off! 

He took him down a winding path along the shore, past a cliff that half-hid a small cove. Stanley stopped and Shermie dug his heels into his shoulders, like a horse. "What're you waiting for? Let's go!"

"We're here."

Shermie looked around. "Where's the boat?"

"It might have rotted away, or got washed out to sea. Maybe someone thought it was a hazard and tore it down." Stanley pulled him off of his shoulders and set him back down on the ground. "Heh, it was _definitely_ a hazard. I'm lucky I didn't get tetanus!"

"What's tetanus?"

"It gives you lockjaw and then you have to eat soup through a straw _for the rest of your life_!"

Shermie gasped. "Nuh-uh!" Stanley picked him up again and carried him back to Ma.

_But there never seems to be enough time_   
_To do the things you want to do_   
_Once you find them_   
_I've looked around enough to know_   
_That you're the one I want to go_   
_Through time with_

Shermie scowled at his feet. "Hey, come on, kiddo," Stanley goaded, poking him in his tummy to try to get him to smile. Shermie wasn't having any of it. "I gotta leave."

Shermie pinched his mouth together. " _Stanford_ doesn't want to stay, _you_ don't want to stay..." He mumbled. It wasn't fair. He had _two_ brothers and he never got to see them.

Stanley sighed. "I would stay if I could, but Pa wouldn't like it."

"We don't have to tell him! I can hide you in my room!"

"Pa will find out." Stanley patted him on the shoulder. "But, hey, you can come visit me when I get settled."

Shermie sighed. "Yeah... Okay..."

Stanley's hand stilled and rested on his shoulder for a moment. Then he was gone, his car roaring as it took off.


	22. Sundown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Sundown" by Gordon Lightfoot (1974)](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kv8zyBi4ZXk)

_I can see her lyin' back in her satin dress_   
_In a room where ya do what ya don't confess_   
_Sundown, you better take care_   
_If I find you've been creepin' 'round my back stairs_   
_Sundown, you better take care_   
_If I find you've been creepin' 'round my back stairs_

Stan scrubbed at the dishes, but he couldn't keep his eyes on his work. His gaze kept drifting over to Gino and the pizza dough spinning gracefully atop his fingertips, mere centimeters from the long column of ash at the end of Gino's cigarette. Stan wasn't squeamish or nothing, but... "What're you gonna do if the ash falls into the dough?"

"Gives the dough extra flavor," Gino said, without missing a beat. "Ponziano secret recipe."

Right. Never eating at Ponziano's again. Got it. Stan went back to scrubbing. Jorge was squatting on the floor, his back against the wall, and somehow his hair remained perfect underneath the hairnet. He nudged Stan's leg and offered up his joint. Stan took a drag before handing it back. He didn't really like the numb, sleepy feeling it left him with, but the marijuana gave him back his appetite. He had put on some weight since leaving New York and had lost that hollow-eyed look, but he was still below his target weight. Stan glanced at the clock, saw that it was 9:00, and shucked his apron and hairnet. "You were going to pay me today, remember?" Stan said. Gino and Ponziano could remember the date of their eighth cousin's, twice removed, wedding anniversary, but when payday rolled around they turned into a couple of Alzheimer's patients.

"Talk to my brother," was all Gino said. Stan sighed and dropped the dishtowel on the counter with his apron and hairnet. He made his way to Ponziano's wood-panelled office and knocked.

"Come in!" Ponziano smiled and leaned back in his chair when Stan entered. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm here for my pay."

"Of course, of course." He reached into his wallet and pulled out a $20, dropping it on his desk.

Stan just looked at it. "We agreed on fifty."

"You broke a plate."

"A single plate costs $30?"

Ponziano puffed up, his round face turning bright red beneath his bushy moustache. "If you are unhappy, find another job that will take a no-name high school dropout! I should turn you into the police! You are trying to extort me! I've seen how buddy-buddy you are with Jorge! Are you two 'casing the joint'? Hmm?"

Stan rolled his eyes and snatched up the $20 before Ponziano could give himself a heart attack with his theatrics. He was worse than Ma.

Ponziano was still frothing at the mouth when Stan left. The night was cool, a thankful break from the heat of the day. A couple of college girls were giggling and pushing each other up the sidewalk to a bar a little ahead of him. Stan eyed the long, brown legs and the tiny shorts on one of them. He let his gaze linger for a moment before trailing up her long hair, pinned back with a very familiar looking flower barrette. "Carla?" Stan asked, stunned.

Carla McCorkle turned around, her smile freezing as she realized just who it was standing in front of her. She opened her mouth and out came a high-pitched... noise (a laugh? a scream?) and then she was on him, her arms squeezing right, "Stanley! Oh my God, Stan! What are you doing here? I've missed you so much!"

She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards her friends. "Come meet Stan!" She said in a too-loud voice. "My boyfriend from New Jersey!"

Stan jolted. She hadn't said "ex." Did that mean...? She was clearly tipsy, probably just a slip of the tongue, but she was squeezing his hand and staring up at him like he had hung the moon.

_She's been lookin' like a queen in a sailor's dream_   
_And she don't always say what she really means_   
_Sometimes I think it's a shame_   
_When I get feelin' better when I'm feelin' no pain_   
_Sometimes I think it's a shame_   
_When I get feelin' better when I'm feelin' no pain_

Stan and Carla picked up where they had left off, like they had never stopped. He made up a story about being on a cross-country adventure (which was true, in a sense) and Carla told him about her classes, and her fears about life after she graduates (but also he could hear the pride in her voice when she says "graduate" and Stan was proud of her too). He knew that they were going too fast, that they might burn up in the heat. They're not the same people that were in high school, they can't just erase the four years between them, but Stan couldn't bring himself to slow down. It was all he had and he didn't want to lose this too.

Stan had cut into the carpeting underneath the driver's seat of the Stanmobile and made a secret a secret compartment for his cash. He pulled out a couple of bucks from the $400 he had managed to hold onto from washing dishes, picking fruit, and doing other (legitimate) jobs. Of course, it had also meant sleeping in his car, stealing gas, eating burnt leftovers that couldn't be sold from Ponziano's, and showering at the YMCA.

How much money would it take to rent a place? Pay the bills, buying groceries? More than he could make just doing what he was doing now. He had to find some way to get a job, preferably under his own name because Carla was going to start asking some awkward questions if she heard someone call him "Hal."

Stan had given up on ever earning a million dollars. He would never be welcomed back home. Maybe one day Ford would forgive him even without the money, and Shermie might seek him out once he was grown and out from under Pa's thumb, but... Stan didn't think he should wait for them any longer. There was Carla, there was the potential of a future here in Phoenix with her. He could make his own family.

He just needed a way to get a job.

But first...

Stan took the money and headed to the _Happy Days_ inspired 1950s juke joint where Carla was waiting. She was leaning against the jukebox as he came in, browsing the song selection, and Stan felt the need to salute the American Textile Workers for making those perfect short-shorts. Carla turned to look at him and called out, "Stan! Come dance with me!"

_I can picture every move a man could make_   
_Getting lost in her lovin' is your first mistake_   
_Sundown, you better take care_   
_If I find you've been creepin' 'round my back stairs_   
_Sometimes I think it's a sin_   
_When I feel like I'm winnin' when I'm losin' again_

Stan had spent the past four hours pounding the pavement, ducking into every place that had a "Help Wanted" sign posted in the window without any luck. Most hadn't been willing to pay under the table, others had wanted to see proper identification, and the rest were probably a front for money laundering and Stan couldn't afford to get mixed up in that. He hadn't even bothered with the newspaper want ads; if they could afford advertisement, they could afford better than him.

Stan headed back to the alley where he had parked his car and stopped short, his breath catching in his throat. All of the doors were open and the trash that he had left lying on the floorboards were strewn across the street. Stan felt his heart race as he ran to it, looking around for anything, _anything_ , that they had left behind. His duffel bag was gone, along with all of his clothes, his watch, and...

Stan groped underneath the driver's seat and felt... nothing.

$400 gone, stolen.

Stan collapsed onto the seat and gripped the steering wheel, trying to get his breathing under control. He can't believe... He had _nothing_... With a scream of rage, Stan beat his fists against the steering wheel and saw the hood of his car bounce upward. It wasn't secure? Stan got out and walked cautiously around, lifting the hood the rest of the way to peek inside.

The bastards stole his car battery.

Stan closed the hood and shut all the doors. He didn't have anything to cover the broken window at the moment. At least it was warm in Phoenix. He didn't bother to lock the doors as he left, what would be the point?

Stan headed to a little place called The Bronco. He had made a note of it when he entered the city, telling himself that he wouldn't actually do it again, he wouldn't need to this time. Well, he needed to now. He didn't go inside, but slipped around to a side alley where a couple of other guys were milling around.

It didn't take him long before he caught someone's eye. He gave the man a thousand-watt smile. "Looking for something?"

"What's it cost?"

"Depends on what you want."

He ended up on his knees and he was terrified of the stains it would leave on his jeans. What would Carla say when she saw him? Would she be able to guess? Stan worked hard and fast, trying to get him to hurry up and just come already.

The man yanked on his hair and smashed his face against his pubic bone and then it was done, it was over. He paid and left and Stan tried to wipe at his jeans as he made his way to the bar he promised he'd meet Carla at.

There was some long haired hippie strumming a guitar and singing a Simon & Garfunkel song. Carla was at a table with some friends, watching. Stan compulsively wiped at his knees again.

"I can't believe you're dating a townie," one of Carla's friends said.

"He's not a townie," Carla protested. "He'd have to be from this town to be a townie."

"Jason has more FEP."

"What?"

"Future Earning Potential," Carla's friend said sagely. "He's an accounting major."

Carla sipped her drink. "And an asshole. At least Stan's fun, even if he is broke." She hadn't looked away from the hippie once. "There is just something about musicians that gets me all... Oh, Stan, hi!" She turned to him with a smile. Stan pretended like he had just walked in and hadn't overheard everything they just said.

_I can see her lookin' ast in her faded jeans_   
_She's a hard lovin' woman, got me feelin' mean_   
_Sometimes I think it's a shame_   
_When I get feelin' better when I'm feelin' no pain_   
_Sundown, you better take care_   
_If I find you've been creepin' 'round my back stairs_   
_Sometimes I think it's a sin_   
_When I feel like I'm winnin' when I'm losin' again_

"Stanley, wait!"

Stan shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking. He could hear Carla cursing her heels somewhere behind him and felt a grim sense of satisfaction as she finally ripped them off. Grim, because that meant she was now able to catch up with him.

"Will you just listen?!" She yelled.

"To your drunken excuses?" Stan balked. "No. Fuck off. Go back to the hippie you were making out with."

"That was just--" She waved her hand around in the air. "It was a mistake. I had a couple of drinks."

There was a part of Stan that whispered that he was a hypocrite, that he had done a lot worse over the past couple of days then just drunkenly make out with a musician. Stan ignored the voice and clung desperately to his anger. "I thought we had something special! I thought our relationship was actually going somewhere this time!"

"To where?" Carla demanded. "To marriage?"

"Is that so terrible?!"

"Yes!" Carla screamed. "You keep looking at me like... like I'm going to save you! I can't do that, Stanley!"

Stan didn't wait around to hear anything else. He left.


	23. Wish You Were Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd (1975)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjpF8ukSrvk)

_So, so you think you can tell_  
_Heaven from hell?_  
_Blue skies from pain?_  
_Can you tell a green field_  
_From a cold steel rail?_  
_A smile from a veil?_  
_Do you think you can tell?_

Ford leaned back against the dark leather booth and Mr. Bronson smiled as he slipped a small piece of paper towards him with a ridiculously high number on it. "That would be your starting pay," he said, his voice low and quiet, though Ford didn't know why. It was obvious to him that all the diners sitting next to them were agents. "We've been following your work, Mr. Pines. We think you could be a great asset to this country."

"I..." Ford struggled to come up with an answer. "There's still my research thesis... For my doctorate."

Mr. Bronson hummed. "Any work you do for us will, of course, be confidential. We can't have the Ruskies uncovering all our secrets in the latest issue of _Popular Science_ , but if it's a PhD you want, we can arrange that."

Ford wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. Mr. Bronson seemed to sense his weakening resolve and went in for the kill. "The work you would be doing is of the utmost importance. There is no greater achievement, no greater fame than this."

A powerful ache burned through Ford's chest. The thought of slaving away in some government laboratory rankled him. He didn't want to be dictated. He wanted to do his own research, study what he wanted to study-- whatever that was. But... He wanted his work to mean something too. Where else could he find that except with the government? Sure, he would like to study anomalies, but what could he really hope to gain from that other than vindication and a trip to the loony bin? He wasn't going to turn out like his mother. "I... Let me think on it," Ford said.

Mr. Bronson smiled. "Of course. We'll be in touch. I trust you are aware of the need for discretion?"

"I won't tell anyone." Ford was quick to assure him. "Thank you for the offer, I must be going."

Ford burst out of the dark restaurant and was nearly blinded by the cheery afternoon sun. He could breathe again. Ford hurried back to the apartment he shared with Fiddleford. He pushed open the front door, sticky with peeling paint, and came face to face with a tuxedo -- still in its clear plastic garment bag -- that someone had hung up on the coat rack. Ford threw his coat on the other peg and stared at it with some amusement. Fiddleford shuffled out of the kitchenette with a cup of coffee in his hands. "Overdoing it, aren't you Fidds? No one will be able to see it underneath your cap and gown."

Fiddleford's eyebrows lifted up, reaching nearly to his hairline. "That's... That's not for graduation, Stanford. It's for my wedding. Next week. In which you are the best man. You did remember to pick up your tux, right?"

Ford felt the color drain from his face. He briefly thought about lying, but the dead-eyed look in Fiddleford's face told him that probably wouldn't work. "I've been very busy!" He blurted out.

"Uh-huh."

"I've had job offers so top secret that I could get in trouble for even hinting at them!"

"Johnson's Tailoring closes at six." Fiddleford took a sip of coffee as Ford slung his jacket back over his shoulders. "And don't forget to pick up a pair of black dress socks! Emma-May will have both our heads if she catches you wearing those Star Trek monstrosities!"

_Did they get you to trade_  
_Your heroes for ghosts?_  
_Hot ashes for trees?_  
_Hot air for a cool breeze?_  
_Cold comfort for change?_  
_Did you exchange_  
_A walk on part in the war_  
_For a lead role in a cage?_

The auditorium was deafening and Ford stood alone in a sea of graduates swarming around their friends and family. He had done it. He had earned his Masters, even if it wasn't from West Coast Tech. He had overcome this school, his brother's sabotage, _everything_ and he had done it alone.

He saw the top of Fiddleford's head, his cap lost somewhere, as he and Emma-May pushed through the crowd to reach him. Fidds wrapped his arms around him in a hug and Ford couldn't help the small jump at the sudden contact; it always startled him when someone other than St-- other than his mother did that to him. Emma-May shook his hand, her smile bright as she congratulated him.

Then she looked over his shoulder and said, "Oh, you must be Stanford's father! You two look just alike!"

Ford couldn't help but stiffen as he turned around to see his Pa, his mother, and Shermie. Ford's eyes glanced over them, seeking out Stanley and felt something tear inside of him to find him missing. Of course he wasn't there. He hadn't wanted Ford to go to college at all. Stanley didn't want to be here, and Ford hadn't wanted him to come anyway. He wondered what Stan had said when Ma had told him about Ford's graduation.

"Hey, we'll meet you tonight, ok? We're going to go find my parents." Fiddleford waved him goodbye and ushered Emma-May through the packed hall.

"Stanford." Pa reached out with his hand and gave him a firm shake. Ford hadn't realized just how tall he had grown since leaving home. He was taller than his Pa now and it was such a strange, disjointed feeling to have to look down at him.

Ma quickly elbowed Pa out of the way so that she could throw her arms around his neck. "I'm so proud of you, honey, and I know your Dedulya would be too."

Ford patted her on the back and disentangled himself from her arms. "Wow, Shermie, you've really grown." How old was he now? Eight? Nine? Ford felt a creeping sense of shame that he didn't know.

Shermie shrugged and looked shyly down at his feet, saying nothing.

Pa spoke next, "Have you got a job yet?"

"There have been offers, but I don't know if I'm going to take it yet. I still need to do my doctorate thesis."

Pa let out an irritated huff. "How much more schooling do you need? A Bachelors should have been enough, but you said you needed a Masters too, and now you're saying you want a doctorate? There are bills that need to be paid."

The slow embers of Ford's temper sparked. "What bills? Scholarships paid for my school."

"And what about your family, Stanford? You're a man, you've got responsibilities--"

"'Lie and cheat and ride on my coattails,'" Ford muttered. His family had a bad habit of doing that.

Ford couldn't see Pa's eyes behind his sunglasses, but his mouth tightened as he stared up at Ford. "What was that?"

What did he owe them? What had they done for him other than hold him back? He wished he had a normal family, a mother who didn't lie, a father who cared, a brother that wouldn't betray. Welcomed home every summer with hugs, who listened when he talked, made him feel safe and loved and wanted for more than just the money he could earn. Ford slipped his hand through his gown, into his trouser pocket where he kept the slip of paper Mr. Bronson gave him. He handed the six figure number to Pa. "That's the starting pay for the job offer I got."

Pa sucked in his breath as he looked it over.

"I turned it down."

Pa's head snapped up. "You did what!? You ignoramus, you--"

"Are you going to hit me, Pa?" Ford asked. He had always been too scared to stand up to Crampelter, of standing his ground during his boxing lessons. He wasn't scared now.

Pa didn't do anything. He just stood there, the paper in his hand creased from how hard he was clutching at it.

"I've got to go, I promised to meet up with Fiddleford." He looked down at Shermie and ruffled his hair as he went "I'll see you around."

_How I wish, how I wish you were here_  
_We're just two lost souls_  
_Swimming in a fish bowl_  
_Year after year_  
_Running over the same old ground_  
_What have we found?_  
_The same old fears_  
_Wish you were here_

Emma-May was standing with her bridesmaids while her mother snapped pictures. Ford gulped at his beer and wished he could loosen his tie, but every time his fingers inched toward his neck he felt Emma-May's eagle-like glare land on him.

Fiddleford slid into the seat next to him, still wearing that same goofy grin he had throughout the whole ceremony. "You might want to ease up a little. Don't want you puking in the bouquet."

Ford waved him off. "I feel fine. Great! I don't have a care in the world. I can do whatever I want. I'm free." _Adrift_.

Fiddleford put on a serious face that Ford felt was a touch mocking. "Uh-huh. And what're you gonna do with your newfound freedom?"

Anything. Because nobody cared anymore what he did. Not Stanley, not his Pa. He was alone. He was going to do it alone. "I'm going to look for Bigfoot," he insisted.

And because Fiddleford didn't know any better, he laughed.


End file.
